Resipiscence

This is the really, really angsty entry. I mean, the pages runneth over with pure, unadulterated self-pity. I think this one appeared in... late sixth grade. I wish I had dated these.

You have been warned.

Hi. Me again, about school.

I seem to feel the need to reintroduce myself. As if anyone else is going to be writing in there? *sigh*

I don't think my grades should be the focus of my life.

This must be right after one of my report cards had come home.

My privileges are based on my performance at school, regardless of the fact that I have the crappiest math teacher known to man (or woman),

*snicker* Budding feminist that I was.

all my friends are in different pods [groups of classes and teachers], and just as a topper, a sleep disorder (thanks a bunch, Dad, but I don't want that particular gene). As a matter of fact, it's now exactly 12:23 p.m. and I'm still not sleepy.

This sleep disorder that my parents thought I had is now known as "being a night person." Really. They thought it was so strange that I always stayed up until after midnight, it had to be something medical.

It's amazing how much impact a simple number can have on your life. 76 in social studies (Gifted, I might add)? Say adios to any hopes of getting my piano lessons back! It makes me so mad!!! 90 in Science? Big whoop. 75 in (yuck) Math? I can smell the prison food. Not to mention the fact that I've always gotten straight A's, and now my little description in the yearbook, if it was written by my former classmates, it would be "The genius turned dumb!"

I seem to remember one of my classmates actually saying that to my face. And yes, this is where my long-standing vendetta with math began.

I really hate people like that. Tyler, Reed, Carrie, and all them, big fat snobs with nothing else to do than torture innocent people who have nothing to do with them. It really grates on my nerves.

-break-

I'm not really sure how long a break this was, considering the next sentence. I can only assume a few days or weeks.

(Sorry. Had to go. But the story continues...)

Hi. I'm back. Carrie, Reed aren't really a problem anymore. Tyler's too busy bugging everyone else. But I've noticed something else I haven't taken note of before. Mom got mad at me and told me to shutup. I then started crying.

Okay, so I was a sensitive child, once upon a time.

And lo and behold, everyone started laughing at me. Ha, ha. REAL funny. I ran up to my room and locked the door. Dad came up and said some bullCRAP about taking a joke. Now, reader, tell me this. If this was a joke (and presumably jokes are funny), then WHY AREN'T I LAUGHING YET?

Yeah, how come? I still think this is a valid argument. If it's not funny, it's not a joke, it's just mean.

I repeated this to dearest daddy. He then repeated himself. I followed his lead, giving him a Look for good measure. And what does he do? HE STARTS LAUGHING AGAIN! For gosh sakes, what is so dang HILARIOUS about making me cry? It calls to mind a scene from fourth grade.

Wow. Really taking a stroll down memory lane here.

I was sitting down in my chair, leaning back on the back legs (dumb, I know, but I wasn't paying it much mind.) Next thing I knew, I was falling. I landed on my back. Once I shook the initial daze off, I realized everyone in the class was cracking up. I looked around, and even the teacher was smiling, on the verge of laughing herself.

I didn't write this, but I do remember seeing the boy I liked at the time laughing the hardest. Jerk.

That did it. I broke down. Of course, the girls tried to offer some sort of sympathy, but all the guys just sat there laughing their heads off. Yee, haw. Just hilarious. It seems that people seem to get a kick out of basically shooting my self-esteem to a pile of ashes. I don't blast into them. What is that invisible line that separates the gunmen (or women) from the targets?

Equal-opportunity torment. Gunmen AND gunwomen.

... actually, upon reading the last three pages of this entry, I don't think I need to go much further. It's just basically ranting and raving at my tormentors and how "silent murder," my term for verbal torment of this kind, is worse than being physically tortured, and how everyone that makes fun of other people should be put on another planet so they can kill each other off. Much use of underlining and huge writing and capitals.

I also have a couple of poems in here, but like I said, my poetry back then wasn't exactly top-notch. There is one that's not horrible, but the title is "Depression Lake" and involves a lot of drowning imagery. Considering I wasn't actually diagnosed until after middle school, this was probably a result of reading teen magazine articles about suicide.

I remember sitting down to write those entries, basically thinking that life was hopeless and I was screaming into thin air. In a truly stunning catch-22, I didn't think anyone understood me (frankly, I don't think I understood myself), so I isolated myself, then complained about how no one wanted to understand me, so I just drew back further.

I remember crying a lot and wondering why I was even there on Earth, if all that seemed possible was either ignorance or suffering.

That's about what Life was to me back then. Pain. Even death wasn't much of an escape, because you had to endure pain to get there, and I was too scared of what might lie beyond the line to attempt anything.

I wish, sometimes, that I could go back in time and talk to my twelve-year-old, depressed, self-loathing self. Running into the Terminator time paradox, of course, but still.

Labels: blog, depression, etc