#blackandredcarousel

Sometimes I feel like everyone else is dreaming and I am the only person seeing things clearly. Hyper-vigilance gives me an advantage in this life sometimes. I often find my peers unable to logically think out the consequences of even their simplest actions. If you don't clean your stove, it gets disgusting and attracts flies. If you want a towering flower, you have to plant seeds. If you hand a two year old a stick, it will hit someone or something with it, and on and on. I know every color in the room without thinking of it, I know who is coordinated and who is not. I can tell (partly because of 6 years of communication classes) how someone is feeling before they know. I'm the first one with an ashtray when your ash gets too long and the first to know who's turn it is. I can tell you when someone is lying, flirting, nervous, scared, or cold. I can remember every person in the room's name and I can tell you how they feel towards the person they come with. I forget that other people don't comprehend or notice these things and then I get irate when others don't treat me with amount of attentiveness I am capable of at all times. That isn't fair. 

I know it will help, but I refuse myself it at all costs. It's simple and free and what I want to do for the rest of my life, but I am so hesitant to write when there are painful things happening because it would mean recording something that I have real and current feelings about. It would mean facing the pages in the future, seeing how worked up I get, how extreme my reactions are. When I visit old journals I wince and laugh. I hate the thought of even myself laughing at my feelings while I'm having them, so I just WAIT until I've worked through the crisis some other way before committing it to paper. All of my journals are becoming passive and boring. "I broke it off with so and so a week ago," or, "I had a really bad panic attack about such and such yesterday."  The magic of journaling is that you can peek into who you were but I spoil it by constantly by editing myself. Stopping myself from writing also extends my pain. I still eventually write about each incident, which often triggers renewed sadness and panic, making me experience residual emotions sometimes weeks after. The cruelty I inflict on myself accidentally because of the damage in my head is so profound that I'm still surprised when I find another instrument of torture that my subconscious is/has been using to control my thoughts and actions.  

Am I real? My therapist thinks three goals per day are too many. Three. I cannot manage three things in a day, admittedly. If I had known being an adult simply meant I would be as scared as a child without someone cooking for them, I would not have rushed into adulthood so vehemently. How is it that my brain works so hard at the things others do without effort, but asking me to write a 10 page paper on existentialism in contemporary literature is like asking a garden to grow? The baffling part is before I became an adult I was much better at it. I could buy a week's worth groceries on $25, go out with my friends every day, manage a 3.5 gpa, get drunk every weekend and live peacefully under the same roof as two of my primary abusers. Now I'm six years and a state away, and I can't handle wiping my ass and flushing the toilet in the same day. Will it be like this forever? What happens when my friends are sick of giving and never getting? Will I grow up one day? I can't stand at the sink and do a load of dishes without completely changing my mood or without walking away half way through and forgetting all about them. More than once per day I am completely overcome by a feeling of dread that replaces every other sensation until I'm left staring at a wall with horror painted onto my face.