(lol @ ze title~ Just finished writing this in my moleskine, but I think it’s important enough to put on my blog. 7 pages in my moleskine, btw… I better get to typing!)
My depression is back. Not only that but once again I want so badly to die. That is different from being suicidal, mind you. There is no inner strength in me to pull off a stunt like that. Can’t I just get some sort of terminal illness? That way I could say, “Fuck college, fuck all these people that I hate, fuck everything,” and go do what I really want (to travel). I’m honestly so sick of being in school. I am not thriving here, my grades are mostly awful, and I have never been more confused in my life.
UCSB is a research-based university. I cannot stress that enough. Well, I don’t give a fuck about research. I wanted to be psychologist to help people better cope with their life issues. You know, a humanitarian view on all of this. And UCSB is completely sucking away all the passion I had for the field of psychology. Not to mention I do poorly in all the psych classes. Yeah it’s sort of from lack of trying but that’s because I have no interest anymore. None.
And now it almost feels like one of those “oh shit” moments where it’s too late to turn around. The damage has been done, so to speak.
So here I am in college spending thousands of dollars, and I don’t know why I am here. People attend college to earn a degree and it’s a stepping stone to better things. But, I don’t want the damn degree I came here to earn and if I had to choose another right away – none that are useful to me come to mind. And as for better things ahead I don’t even know what I want. When there is no target I can’t aim!
Okay, take a breather. Philosophy. I love it. I get it. I excel in it. And… it’s also guaranteed unemployment. What, am I going to philosophize my way into a job?! Yeah uhm… no. Film. I like film. Except the major is closed (I think) and I don’t want to work in anything film related. Literature. I like/enjoy reading it, sure. My essays aren’t bad, and if it’s a good read the essays are even fun to write! And yet no way in hell do I want to teach. Also, I’m not going to write any book. My skills and creativity don’t extend that far. So… fuck, what’s left? Sociology? I’m more interested in individuals than collective societies.
My rant is going nowhere, as is very clear to me. But I knew that from the start. I’m running out of options here. How do I proceed?
There are a few sure things I have always wanted out of life:
- A lot of money
- A big house
- Pet cat and dog
I have a feeling that if I keep writing I’m eventually going to stumble upon what’s really bothering me. But I’ll write everything else first.
Ok, so I need a high-paying job. Requisite: DEGREE. *groans* I already decided that med-school is not for me. Trust me, I would end up killing myself on day 1. Okay, and if I have to attend grad school (which many psych majors do, to do anything with their degrees) then what’s the point?
Something I never considered until now, strangely enough: office job. But I mean like a really tall building, always busy, time-/life-consuming office job. That sounds exciting. Lmao. God, I’m crazy. I may be the only person alive to think something like that. And yet it’s true, that excitement I feel. (Too bad it’s also not guaranteed a lot of money…)
I’m always in such a hurry to grow up (oh here we go – this is the intro). Nothing about teen life appeals to me. And especially I hate being a fucking kid. (There I said it.)
—, my best friend, the one who said she would wait until marriage, had sex and was two months pregnant. She recently had an abortion.
— is was the only person I could talk to about my problems and not feel like I was excessively whiny, like my problems were real. Meaningful, even. And now I realize everyone else is actually *living* their lives while I sit here and contemplate the bloody mind-body problem or the ethics of who-knows-what. But now we can’t commiserate with one another about how everyone is growing up so fast. She crossed the border and I feel so alone, as the last remaining child. It’s sort of like, “Hah, sucker, you have no life experience.”
So many people, by my age, have had handfuls of relationships, drink! (even though it’s illegal), tried or do drugs, have sex, etc. etc. If, for example, say that these are by definition characteristics of what it means to be an adult then I am not one of them. Mind you, I don’t want to do any of those things (okay well a relationship is whatever – but that’s a completely separate topic for another rainy day), but I still want to be an adult.
The problem may lie in my definition of adult. But, look around. When I tell people I’ve done none of those things (and don’t want to [i.e. don’t want to drink]), they look at me like a fucking 5th grader with a small “aww” to accompany it. But hell, even 5th graders have bfs/gfs. *sigh* I’m not going to compromise my beliefs to be like everyone else but that still saddens me.
Age is nothing but a number. While my age may indicate I’m an adult I’m still living in Neverland. And I can cry and cry and cry, but I think I’m trapped here.
Last night, after talking to —, I couldn’t stand it anymore: the sickening familiarity of my bed. So I went for a bike ride. And I found a lovely circular courtyard with all these benches. A picturesque scene really. Christmas-lighted trees, and several empty benches except one. There I was, crawling into myself, hugging my knees and crying.
My only thought:
I want to die.
Okay so it’d be a lie to say that was my *only* thought. But it was the main one. It also occurred to me that I whine so damn much, and it’s not warranted. The problems are all in my head because you know what? Children don’t have problems. I don’t have any experience in anything life-related and I’m still depressed?
My best friend just had an abortion and I’m wishing death upon myself over lack of decisiveness?! It wasn’t making sense. And still, it doesn’t.
I have no right to feel anything. And! Now I know why I think emotions are weak: I’m weak for feeling them because they’re uncalled for. There is no reason to be so depressed.
This sounds uplifting almost, but rest easy because it’s only propelled me into an even further depression. And! This is why I want a terminal illness; if I were dying there’d be a rhyme and reason for my depression. My thoughts of wanting to end the misery would be warranted.
Alas, I do not have a terminal illness and I am still miserably alive. When will life throw me something to really warrant my depression?
Honestly I’ve hardly eaten this week. I’m still not hungry. There is no enjoyment in anything anymore.
All I wanted was your love.
[A dramatic ending. Love it. Damn, but I’m still not done. That’s why I wanted to write everything else first. *sigh*]
I’m not going home for Thanksgiving. My mother doesn’t want me there. I could QUOTE her text messages here, but why bother? I’ve already accepted her dislike for me. Though I’m not so sure why I still feel as though magically one day everything will be okay. It’s the child-like thing I was talking about. Extreme naivete, or whatever people call it these days. It’s not masochism, that I can assure you of.
Then I started crying in the shower because I always invite my family but no one ever wants to come visit me. I thought about calling Aunt Meme and just imagining the usual “No, I’m busy” response made me cry. Of course everyone is busy. Everyone else is an adult, living their lives. Yet again I am stuck in this damn rut. *sigh*
I just don’t know what to do anymore.