Cheese

Story of a Girl
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2015-10-27 22:32:38 (UTC)

Finally getting help!

For the past few days, Antonio has been pushing my buttons since the day we were assigned the whole paper slide project. First off, I was already pissed off because again, our group was made up me, Maria, Niza, and him. They three of them have been slacking off since day one. I was literally the only one who was working on the project. I wasted one day working on the font for the title page, and the rest of the days were spent doing research. And EVERY FUCKING DAY, Antonio would look at me and say, "It doesn't have to be perfect, y'know. Nothing in this world is perfect." Not unless you work for it. He didn't intend to push my buttons, but he'd tell me to stop working so hard.

NO.

FUCK OFF.

I'm so, so sorry that I actually want to do WELL on this stupid project. The whole project is stupid, but it has the same weight as that of a test, 70% summative. Is it really that much of a bother if I want to put in the extra effort in the drawings on the "slides"? Besides, I'M the one doing all of the work. Antonio has done nothing to contribute to the project besides telling me to stop making it perfect. He can shut the fuck up and let me do my thing. I don't think he has ANY right to say anything when he hasn't done anything to help out. I'VE been doing the work of four, therefore I should be the one who decides if I want to put the extra effort in, and I have.

I'm a perfectionist. When it comes to drawing, I will spend literally the entire day working on a drawing until I'M satisfied, until it's absolutely perfect to me. And when it comes to drawing, I don't care about other people's opinions. Honestly, it's the only thing in this world where I won't obsess over someone else's opinion. The only opinion that matters to me is my own. Drawing has always been something I enjoy doing, and I enjoy doing it well. Antonio likes looking through my notebooks and looking at all the stupid sketches I do. He'll say stuff like, "Wow, I wish I had talent!" "Oh my gosh, you're like that Da Vinci dude." "How'd you get so good?" EFFORT, MAN. I put effort into it, no matter how small the doodle is! I practiced whenever I had the chance, like doing simple sketches for small school projects. If my projects required pictures, I'd draw the work myself. And because I took the time to doodle whenever wherever, it helped me grow as an "artist". I'm making our project look great, AND I'm helping myself progress in the world of art. He can fuck off and stop telling me to stop making it perfect.

So, today, I was working on one of the slides. The slide I was working on was titled, "How do you dance to norteñas?" On the right, I drew a large salsa dancing lady emoji... and let me just say, I drew it AMAZINGLY. And with marker, too. I drew the thing yesterday, but I didn't finish so that's what I was doing today. I grabbed the markers but red wasn't in the box, and that was the color I needed the most. I asked three other tables if I could borrow their red marker, but none of them had it. Antonio was like, "Why don't you just use orange? Bianca, not everything in this world is perfect--" HOW ABOUT YOU SHUT YOUR ASS UP? Maybe Antonio is okay with putting in only half the effort, and maybe he's okay with things being incomplete, but I'M NOT. I'm not okay with things being incomplete, and I don't like putting in half-assed effort. If you're not putting in your best, then you might as well not put in any effort at all. And to me, if it's not perfect, then it's not good enough. I didn't want to use orange because I had already used red marker. I was HALFWAY done. I hate incompleteness--I needed the red marker to finish off what I had already started.

It's so pathetic to get so angered over something so small, isn't it?

I'm so fucking pathetic.

I was originally angered by Antonio because he was basically telling me what I couldn't do, even though he had no right to do so because I've worked daily on the project since day one. It was basically MY grade, not a group grade. The project is due Thursday and we need to start recording tomorrow, and we're not even halfway done with the fucking slides because I'm the one doing all the work. What they don't understand is that I have other classes to do work for; I have A-FUCKING-P HOMEWORK. AP comes before anything else, that's the rule. I'm having to do the work, and because I have so much pride in being a perfectionist, I have to live up to my name and do things perfectly... and that led to me thinking of suicide. The thought of suicide has been crossing my mind for the past month. I'll be at home, doing homework, when all of a sudden, I have the strangest urge to stab myself. I'll start listing all my suicide plans, and start calculating the money necessary to accomplish my goals. And the thing is, I don't know where these thoughts are coming from. And they won't go away. I can be paranoid sometimes, but I've gotten to the point where I'm terrified of my own shadows. Isn't that just pathetic? Isn't it so stupid? What kind of person is scared of their own shadow?

Me.

I am.

I can't step outside at nighttime because when I open the door, I see my shadow and I can see another shadow standing behind me. I immediately shut the door so that I won't have to worry about the shadow. I constantly fear that I'm being followed, that I'm being watched. It's a man. He looks like a man from a black-and-white movie, with a long trench coat and a hat. He has a serious look on his face, and his hands are always in his coat. And it's all just a part of my imagination, but something in my head tells me, "He's there, hiding behind the corner, watching you. His shadow is coming near, hide! He's got a knife is his pocket!" I'm scared of my own shadow. I can see this man's shadow approaching mine and stabbing me with his imaginary knife. Then, there's another man "following" me, but he's not a shadow. At my mom's house, I always complained about the lights from outside shining through the curtains. Well, I could navigate my way around the room. By my bed, there was the vanity with the mirror. I'd toss and turn constantly in my bedroom because I can't sleep with lights or sound. At night, I'd look at the vanity mirror and I'd see a man looking at me. He wore a long-sleeved, black v-neck with black pants. His skin was a grey-ish/white color, and he had no hair. He had long elf-like ears and his eyes were bloodshot. Whenever I saw this man, I'd close my eyes and hide under the blankets. And when I'd look up, he wasn't there anymore but something at the back of my head would tell me, "He's right behind you, right next to your ear."

I thought that, MAYBE, I could be paranoid but I think I'm just going crazy. I'm seeing things that aren't there, but it can't be paranoid. That's not paranoia, right?

And, about the whole me being a perfectionist thing, could that be OCD? I've developed the habit of snapping my fingers while I walk. I always snap my left fingers when I take a step on my left leg, or right leg, it alternates. I need to be walking to some kind of beat, to some kind of even number. I feel like this is just me missing being in band? Because, y'know, we always started marching with our left leg and we'd have to march to the beat. Mari has actually gotten annoyed of me snapping. One time, she stood in front of me and grabbed my hands. "Stop snapping... please." I've become more prone to using my ruler. I'm making sure that when I draw lines, they're always at an inch. Never more, never less. I also make sure that I measure my paper in half so that all sides of the paper are exactly the same as the other half. I don't think it's OCD, though. That's probably just me being too much of a perfectionist.

A while ago, maybe two weeks ago, my dad found me crying. He asked me why I was crying and I told him I was done with everything. He said, "what is everything?" And I was like, "I'm done with life. Absolutely done." He told me I didn't have any sort of mental problem, that I was fine. But, if I truly wanted help, he'd take me to see a professional... I've been asking for 2-3 FUCKING YEARS to see a professional. My mom completely ignored me. My dad listenened, but he gave me false promises. "I'll take you next month once I have money." Next month... of what CENTURY? I've tried seeking support from my parents and that hasn't worked out very well for me. Every time I mention killing myself, my dad brushes me off. "You're being stupid. Stop being stupid. Stop saying stupid things." "How would you even accomplish that? You wouldn't dare." "There's nothing wrong with you, mental whatevers don't exist. Just continue praying and you'll feel better." And sometimes, he just yells at me for being upset. "Why are you crying? Stop crying. I SAID STOP CRYING, GOD DAMN IT. YOU IMBECILE. That's it, give me your phone right now, give me everything." He promised he'd take me to see a professional but I call bullshit.

So, after all my thinking in class, I finally broke in tears. I finally had a meltdown. Antonio was like, "Bianca, what's wrong?" "You're worrying me." BULLSHIT. I stormed out of the classroom without Niza and Antonio. I met up with Mari and Taylor who immediately surrounded me, "Who do I have to beat up?" "Are you okay?" All I had to say was, "Counselors." And they followed me there. My counselor was gone, but the lady working the desk there directed me to the counselor next door. He was actually pretty fucking cool. My whole point of good to the counselors office was to get help... if my parents weren't going to get me help, then maybe, the counselors could help me out. If they heard the same thing from a school official, then maybe my dad would take me more seriously. I was hoping the counselor could send a letter home, or maybe call my dad in when I'm not around.... Noooooooo, that didn't happen at all. I started crying even more in the office, and my counselor showed up, delivering Jumba Juice to all the other counselors. By then, she had a packet full of questions that she asked me. The first few questions dealt with how I felt. "Do you feel lonely? Anxious? Suicidal?" Stuff like that. The majority of my answers were yes. She went on to ask things like, "How long have you felt like this?" "Have you ever sought out help?" "Do you have any suicide plans?" Indeed I did. "What's your plan?" This question made me hesitate a bit, and she pointed it out. I didn't mean to hesitate, it's just that, I have plans but I haven't decided on WHICH I'll be most likely to commit. But, I do have plans. And I'm constantly coming up with more plans. She went on to ask other questions like, "when do you think you'll act on these?" "Do you have access to anything that will help you accomplish this?" "Do you have any access to other things that you could possibly harm yourself with?" I mentioned the whole knife and pill things. Overdose was one of my plans--my dad has some prescription pills and I've been eyeing them for a while now. And, whenever I'm doing dishes, I have to stop myself. Whenever I'm washing a knife, I hesitate a little. I think about stabbing myself right there, and I could get away with it, but I tell myself that I'm better than that. I NEED to take a small break from washing dishes to calm myself down before I can go on with finishing. I hate washing knives so much. The counselor pointed out that I'm stronger than I believe--for seeking their help, and for being able to talk myself out of doing anything harmful. I never put too much thought into that, though. I always figured that I was a coward for talking myself out. I don't ever want to get to the point where I'm self-harming. I'd need to be extremely desperate. I can't act on hurting myself, but it's something that I constantly think about. I also mentioned that I tend to scratch my wrists with my pencil. I'll "draw" lines on myself, and it's something that I've only started doing recently.

I completely missed all of lunch and 5th period. By the time I finished answering all the questions, the guy counselor told me that he had called my dad and that he was actually in the building in another room... That completely freaked me out. My counselor said I looked surprised; YES, but not in a good way! My dad was extremely happy about going to work today and he had to leave work early to talk with the counselors about my behavior. Before leaving the room, the guy counselor told me that he looked at my grades while I was answering the questions and he said that I was "clearly a very intelligent young lady. You DO have something going on for you in life, but you just need to get through this obstacle in your life, and we're both going to make sure you get the help you need." After that, he brought my dad in... My MOM and dad. My mom was someone that I absolutely did NOT want in that room. What the hell was she doing there? She wasn't wanted by me. There was an interpreter there with us, and my mom was being kind of rude. She wasn't being very supportive, unlike my dad. He actually kept asking the counselors if it was okay to leave me at home by myself. They told him that counseling for me was a MUST--a private counselor/therapist for myself, and family counseling. They also said that until I started making progress in the counseling, I shouldn't be left alone. ESPECIALLY with his medication and the knives. I shouldn't be left home alone when I'm in a bad mood, or with an environment where I could possibly harm myself. They also suggested that my dad spend more time me, to ask me more about how I'm doing. "Ask her things like, 'How was your day?' or 'Did you sleep well?'" My parents said they both did... and they do, but I never tell them the truth because if I start being honest about how I really feel, they'll just react horribly and I don't want problems. My counselor also mentioned that she would be checking up on me every once in a while, starting tomorrow, to make sure that I've made an appointment. Counseling for me is an absolute must, and because of my answers on the questionnaire, both counselors believe that I'm going through depression. They're not specialists or anything, but they both sincerely think I'm depressed and that maybe I don't need medication, but that it's necessary I have someone I can talk to. My parents aren't that someone. She's making sure that I have some kind of appointment set up this week, the sooner the better, and that she'll be calling my parents until an appointment is official.

This is the help I've been asking for. THIS is what I needed. I wanted an actual diagnosis, but counseling is good, too. My parents are actually taking the counselors seriously. I'm finally getting the help that I need. I'M HAPPY. I'm finally going to start feeling better, and my mental stableness is going to its original state. I'm happy, I'm excited.

By the end of the talk, I completely missed lunch, 5th period, and 6th period. I went straight home with my dad, and my mom following behind. We were going home so that the three of us could talk. My dad started off with saying that he wanted my mom and I to get along better, but my mom was all like, "She needs to understand that she HAS to respect me. She's just a kid, I'm her mother. She respects her mother at all times." NAH. Whatever respect I had for her is gone, never to be seen again. There is no more reconciliation between my mom and I. And then my mom went on to say, "She even deleted me off of Facebook. When my father died, she didn't even bother to call me. Briana and the girls were crying WITH me." My dad went on to defend me saying, "Okay, but don't you know her by now? Bianca doesn't deal with emotions the same way Briana does..." THANK YOU. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to meet my grandfather, but I didn't feel bad about his passing. I didn't feel anything. And, why would I want my mom as a friend on facebook after she kicked me out? I never wanted anything to do with her in the first place. Once I left that house, I was DONE. I was hoping I would never have to hear her voice again, or ever sit in the same room with her. And if I ever had kids, I wouldn't tell them about their grandmother. I wouldn't let her try to contact them. Call me ridiculous, but I'm absolutely done with my mom. She abandoned my older step-sister, she kicked me out, and my sister and I both reacted in the same way, where we don't even want to acknowledge her as our mother anymore. And my mom went on to say, "I make mistakes, too." O RLY? Because she makes the same mistakes over and over again... is it really a mistake if she's doing the same thing repeatedly?

Then she said, "I've told you that you can come to me, confide in me." UH, NO. The first and only time I've ever gone to my mom for help is the one time she told me I should slit my wrists and cut myself. Why would I want to go to a person who encourages me to hurt myself when that's what I need help with? I'm never going to forget what she said, and that's something I'll definitely tell the therapist about. My dad kept telling me to list things I didn't like about them but I was doing my best to just let him talk. If I was honest, I KNEW my mom would react violently like she always has. I wanted to avoid all problems. I didn't even want to be talking to her. Then, she asked if I wanted to come back and my dad was like, "Do you want to live with your mom?"

F U C K N O

I'm out.

I'm oooooooout.

O u t

Oh-you-tee.

I'M OUT.

I have so much fucking freedom at my dad's house. I enjoy not having to worry about calling the cops because mommy is fighting with step daddy. I don't have to worry about taking care of her kids 24/7. My mental health is much more stable at my dad's house. Why would I want to give that up? And then she asked, "Do you really think we wouldn't care if you killed yourself?" BECAUSE YOU GUYS DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT ME. She fucking left me at my aunt's when I was two or three. She left for TWO WEEKS, and no one knew where she went or what she did. Two weeks later, she just showed up and took me back. She had no problem leaving me behind, and she had no problem kicking me out. She didn't care about me then, and she certainly doesn't care about me now. Fuck her bullshit. I'm just a huge burden on them. I don't even belong on this stupid planet. After she left, she took one of the pamphlets the counselors gave us, and she was going to call the number on it to set up an appointment. Unfortunately, no one picked up the phone. She took this whole counseling thing a little more seriously than my dad did because the entire day today, my dad didn't bother looking at the pamphlets.

He's been asking me if I feel better, but that's about it. Then, he just starts preaching about God and how my faith is being tested and all this jazz. I'm already a sinner and on my way to hell. Whoops. Trey was Christian and he constantly repeated Matthew 11:28 "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." This conflicts me and I don't know why. Trey had faith, but even that didn't save him in the end. And me? I don't know where I stand.

My dad took me to walmart after my mom left. We bought a really colorful lamp, but some of the pieces were stolen/missing so we had to return it. My dad bought these khaki jeans instead for his Chapo Guzman costume and some other things. OH. I also found the baby mask from Sunday. It was only $10, and I COULD have bought it, but I left it behind last minute. After that, we ate at Golden Coral for the first time. The food was okay; flavorless, but we liked the variety. They also had a cotton candy machine and that excited me. The service was terrible, though, and I absolutely didn't like that we had a specific exit path. I understand that it helps keep the building organized, but... it was weird. We went to the phone store after that, then the furniture store. We came home and I bought an elote from the elotera. That was honestly the highlight of my day. My headache went away and even though the elote gave me stomach pain, it was well worth it. We washed clothes after, we stopped at La Bonita, and that was my day.

I'm just finally glad that I'm finally going to see a counselor. I'm much happier now. And maybe, I'll find a way to get an official diagnosis. I just hope my parents set up an appointment soon. OH. My dad's friend is taking me to this support group on Friday. There will be a counselor there too, and the group is made up of people my age and we all just share our experiences. I'm not sure I want to go because I don't like speaking out loud, but I can't say no. My dad thought about just using THAT counselor but my counselors highly suggested an appointment with a professional, licensed counselor.

My headache is back and I feel like crying. It's already a little past 10:30PM, my eyes hurt, I want to sleep, but I'm not tired. My dad just walked in, asking if I was still awake. "You need to rest your eyes." They hurt but I don't really care what happens to me anymore. I feel sad and alone and I don't know why.

Mt. Washington is a lovely song, but it's not making me feel any better. I guess I can kinda relate to Kate Marsh, in a way. I probably won't fall asleep until midnight again. And I'll probably wake up full of energy, but I'll be dead inside.

I don't want to deal with Antonio tomorrow. And Mari will probably ask about me tomorrow, but I don't know how to say no. She's so persistent.


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