Tomorrow is Election Day

I've started reading It's Kind of a Funny Story, by Ned Vizzini. I'm not far in it, but so far I am feeling the same connection to it as I did to The Perks of Being a Wallflower. It makes sense. It makes me feel normal. I want to write books that make people feel normal. I think that's a noble thing to do.

Of course, in Perks, Charlie had kind of an explanation for the way he felt. Although, the assumption is even without the sexual abuse he would still have some kind of psychological problems. This Craig kid seems more my type. I don't think there's any underlying reason for the way I am.

I should stop drinking when I have things on my mind. I need to find a more constructive way to deal with my problems.

I'm quite overwhelmed by the looming concept of my mother dying. I assumed I had much more time. I assumed that I could bounce back and make things go well and prove my worth. I assumed I could finish school and let her see me walk, something she missed out on with my sister, and that would be enough. Now I am not so sure. Now I may lose the race. I may never win her love. And then what is the point of anything?

The last time I ruined a party I was similarly upended. It was right after my sister decided she would be going through with her divorce. She smoked, and self-medicated as we do, and tried to fight me for her phone. I'm not a good sister. I'm not good at loving. So this was too much, and I went out the next day to drink away the memories of her fracturing life. I was annoyed. She was the older one, and she was not understanding when I went through my rebellious phase. She told me I was being a bad example for her son. So I was petulant about her own suffering. I felt slighted because she couldn't keep it together. And then I drank, and self-medicated, and tried to talk someone into having sex with me, and tried to steal a phone because I thought it was mine, and wore a bathing suit slightly too small so my breast fell out, and stole clothes because I thought they were mine- they fit and they were black and I wear a lot of black. Then I stumbled off into the night.

I'm a little surprised that I did not stumble off into the night on Saturday, but I think that was only because I was actually with friends at the time. They were so kind the next morning, although we all understood that I had an unacceptable lapse in judgement. So I woke up on a couch, instead of a side walk like the last time I behaved this badly.

I wonder if one can claim to be alcoholic if one out of every 100 times, or so, they drink, they completely lose control. If they don't drink daily? Sometimes I just want a way to explain. A kinder story than, "I'm just kind of a shit human being when it comes down to it guys, and I can't compartmentalize as well as I would like. I can only hide my horrid self 99 out of 100 times."

I considered watching Roots today so I could try to grow out of being an culturally insensitive jack-ass who touches her black friend's hair when she's super intoxicated. I think that impulse just makes me more of a culturally insensitive jack-ass. Really, I have just been wanting an excuse to watch Roots because I heard the recent remake is really good.

I think this is for the best, because I have a hard time being myself. I think part of my struggle to figure out what I am doing is that I spend so much time trying not to be a person with feelings, a person who wants, I hate ambition. It's impulsive and directionless. There's never an end to it- to any of it. So I hate it, and I hate myself for containing it. This is who I am. A very childish girl, who pretends she wants to be better, and I understand if you stop reading.

A friend mentioned today writing a letter of self-compassion. This is the closest I can get. Something nearer to honesty, because I don't know why I would deserve compassion.


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