Wooblytoobly

I just want to not be anxious and depressed. I’m tired of feeling tired and stressed. It makes me just want to stay in bed, but I can’t sleep because all I want to do is just scream and yell and let out this bundle of nerves in my gut. It’s easy to forget how not good I am, but alone, and trying to sleep, it’s almost impossible. When I talked to my psychiatrist, he asked me if I ever had thoughts of suicide. I lied and I told him no. I didn’t realize it until my girlfriend mentioned it. When I’m out and about, it’s easy to forget how often I do. But trying to sleep, it becomes too easy. Sometimes it’s not even about killing myself. It’s often just about who would even care if I died. I know people would care, but it’s hard sometimes. I’m so passive, it’s easy for me to think that my existence is easily ignored. I found my old drama teacher’s letter of recommendation for me. I can’t even recognize she’s talking about me in it. The person it’s about seems full of life and curiosity. Someone looking for new experiences and who can do anything he sets his mind to. That someone isn’t me. Not anymore at least. Maybe in high school. Admittedly, high school is sometimes a blur, and sometimes I can remember it crystal clear. Now I am someone who has no idea what he’s good at or good for. The things I like to do, I’m not good at. The things I’m kind of good at, I don’t like to do. If this seems random and jumbled, I’m sorry but I never really expected somebody to read this other than myself. Or maybe I do want someone to read it? I don’t know. Maybe it’s a little of both. Either way, it’s stream of consciousness and it’s streaming out of my usual jumbled flurry of thoughts mixed in with a lack of sleep. Honestly, I’m not even rereading what I write because it’s probably cliche or corny. I don’t particularly care. I just want the depression gone. I lied today. I said I have low grade asthma so I couldn’t smoke weed. It wasn’t so I was above the influence. It was partially because I’m afraid that being high will be my only release. I felt like if I just didn’t want to, they would think I’m lame or something. I remember my girlfriend saying something to the point of “I might smoke. I’m cool I think,” when we were sitting together. I know she would never mean it that way, but I felt like that means me not doing would mean I am lame. My friends have a habit of poking fun of me when I don’t know something about drugs or something, or when I say marijuana instead of weed or pot. I know they don’t mean to to bother me, and I never really think too much about it until I try to sleep. I’m thinking about trying it though. If anything, I’ll at least have made a choice of my own, and maybe that pathological part of me won’t think of myself as a loser. I hope they don’t read this. They’ll either be mad or maybe go overboard trying to fix. I don’t want that. I’m not a fragile flower. Or maybe I am. A lot of things get to me. Like the thought that maybe I’m not good enough a friend to always be kept around. I have trouble keeping in with the chat, and to be fair everyone has known each other far longer. Plus, sometimes, I just don’t fit in. A reference I make that is outdated, or maybe one that someone else makes that I don’t understand. The way I sometimes carry a joke or a conversation point after others have already had their fill of it. I feel that way with everyone really. This was longer than I intended it to be. I pretty much have resigned myself to no sleep for now.Mental illness wins for now. It feels good to let a little off. The bright side to not sleeping is that I can remember how I feel and am lucid enough to let them out. Who knows. Maybe I will get high and have the best nap I’ve ever had so far. or not. I don’t know. I don’t know a lot about myself. What I’m good at, or even what I am. I try to be an artist, a youtuber, a writer, a singer, and a few other things. I try calling myself those things sometimes. I usually bring them down a peg. I’m a wannabee artist, a not so good singer, a passable actor, an okay writer, a sufferer of PTSD, a molestation (and depending on whose definition you’re using, possibly rape) survivor who who tries so hard to forget those years ever happened, an introvert who is very good at hiding things, hopefully a good boyfriend, and a few other things. I try to have at least a little pride at how I’ve managed, but it’s hard, you know.