I can't believe this.
It's not that I don't have anyone to talk to, it's just that I don't want to talk to anyone. I've got friends who care about me, but they've got their own problems, and I feel selfish and cheap dumping mine on them. Besides, I don't have the energy. I used to be able to talk to my mom, but I can't now, not about this, because last time I needed an ear and turned to her (when I was first seriously considering dropping AP Spanish), she basically said, "Not an option. Drop your extracurriculars and study harder." No compromise. Like hell I was going to do that. So right now I can't talk to her for fear she'll do the same thing again, and I can't take that. Besides the fact that AP Spanish is still a big fucking problem and that she's on a business trip to Hawaii (with my dad, which unfortunately means I'm left with Maria, our anal-retentive conservative fucking housekeeper, for a week). So here I am, midterms coming up, depressed and despondent and trying to study and do homework but I can't , and nothing seems worth it anymore.
I had this weird-fuck mental image (kind of a mental video, actually) of cutting myself up and bleeding all over the place and calling 911 and saying, "Hi, I'm bleeding profusely and I need to go to the hospital. I'd drive myself, but it's kinda hard to hold direct pressure and drive. Besides, I don't want to bleed on my dad's upholstery." And to make it even more ironic, I thought, what if some of the paramedics I know come to pick me up? Like Will, my EMT class teacher. Oh my God. I laughed about that one. At least I can still laugh, even if it's about cutting myself.
I've only done it twice. Cut myself, I mean. Both times because I was so fucking mad at myself and fairly depressed to boot. It was typical cutter mentality, I guess, like I at least had power over myself, and that's something. Both times it was in the same place (I picked this random piece of my arm so it wasn't too obvious). There's not much of a scar left. It wasn't very deep; I kind of scratched and clawed at my arm with a pair of nail scissors until my skin peeled away and then I just kept scratching away at it. It didn't hurt as much as you'd think. Sharp little suckers, those scissors. Not very sanitary, though; it didn't bleed much but it got mad infected and that was pretty nasty. The second time I sterilized them first.
I wonder if violence against yourself is a crime. Not suicide, but, y'know, like just hurting yourself. I don't know. So arrest me, God dammit.
depression, take 1
depression, take 2
next thought: love thought #1