There are some things in life I really need to just accept. One of them is my mental illness, and the ramifications is has/will have on my life. Another is that my piercings will never heal to the state they were before getting pierced. Another is that I can't, actually, achieve perfection. 

 That 2nd reason is actually the one that brought me here again tonight. I took my navel ring out several months ago, and it's left a nasty, indented scar. I wouldn't mind a scar, but I wasn't expecting one quite so 'textured.' i.e., it looks like there's still a hole in my stomach, which is really terribly unattractive, not to mention unsanitary. I guess I assumed it would just slowly fill up and go away but I'm not so sure that's going to happen now. I freaked out a bit upon realizing this and ran to the bathroom to take out my eyebrow ring (newly acquired) but couldn't get a good grip on it and just started crying all over the place. I really like it, and don't regret getting it, but I didn't think about it being so… permanent. Although scars on my eyebrow are a lot less noticeable than ones in the white expanse of my belly. Even if they are… I should be ok with that. I need to come to terms with myself, including mistakes I've made or things I haven't thought through in the past. Listening to Josh Groban, and started thinking about S, then D. I hate hurting people. I hate being hurt. I know which one I'd rather have happen, given the choice, which is why I force myself to hurt others rather than trying for someone I'm truly attracted to. 

I feel so lost. So lonely. So alone. So full of motivation and will and want to act, but my mind is unable to do anything. I feel like an infant child, stumbling around, no way to make it on my own. Being bowled over by a small stumble, not knowing the range of the world of hurt, and taking in everything with a novice's eyes. I feel like an observer, not a participant. I watch myself go through the motions of doing nothing every day. I can't seem to break through though – feel what I should be feeling, do what I should be doing. Want anything. Need anything. Know anything. My therapist told me today to write down my goals for 5 and 10 years from now. I realized I couldn't do that because I have no idea what they are, and that scared the fuck out of me. (I like typing on this Mac keyboard. It's satisfying to my fingers.) I don't even know if I want to go to college, it's just what I'm doing because it's expected. I don't even know if I want to go on living, I just do it because it's expected. Not that I'm really suicidal. Although I guess I don't have to justify myself here… and that's a nice feeling. I just wish I had more than an online community. Someone to actually talk to, someone to trust. My therapist now is just an old guy who gives me medication – there's no talk or trust that goes on. I really miss being back home. With people I understand and situations I feel comfortable in and a therapist I know I can work with. 

Can't get this piercing thing out of my head. (No pun intended.) I know I need to think about it in a rational state, but it's really really freaking me out. So is the fact that I'm getting fat. No, I'm not just being a woman, I have gained 20 pounds. I expect some of it to go away when school starts again, but part of it is the medication, which I may be on forever… Somehow that doesn't scare me, but scars from piercings do.  I don't know. I'm not reasonable right now. My mind is untrained and weak – it needs a mother's love, which is all used up. I'm supposed to be out in the world on my own, but I can't stop stumbling into things and falling underneath everyone else's feet.

 I've been spending a lot of money lately. headphones. iPhone. restaurant food. thoughtless. i just have it, so i spend it. hmm, my capitalizations seems to have gone. 

 i'd really like to sleep out here tonight, I think. dunno why. it feels less scary than my bedroom. too little light in there, too impersonal. people live out here, really live. not just pretend or by proxy. yes, let's try that now.


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