Things, Things, More Things
"To Be Young (Is To Be Sad, Is To Be High)" by Ryan Adams
You were young, and man, you were sad
When you're young, you get sad
When you're young, you get sad and you get high
[been listening to Wilco radio]
May 30, 2016 Monday 8:52 PM
Today was weird but good. I woke up around ten and a little after that, Liv and my parents went shopping for some reason. So I made myself breakfast and sat on the back porch with eating that and reading On The Road (which I've been reading sporadically since February – I'm not even halfway through. But I love it, Christ).
Liv sent me a picture of us holding hands while we were asleep. I didn't look at it very long. It made me feel weird.
I used to talk about this thing that happens with me, where when I get too close to people, I start to feel... disgusting? And... childish? I guess? Which is the feeling I got looking at the photo, and the feeling I get if I think too much about stuff like that.
I had told Pat about it, but we never really sorted through it. I'm very upset. My mom thinks I'll have to find a new therapist. So... I guess I should start looking. It's normally hard to find therapists around here to take people under eighteen, but maybe it'll be easier now? I mean. I'm almost eighteen. I know it doesn't work that way. Well, no. I don't know for sure, I just assume. Still, I'll hope I'm wrong.
Okay so. After I finished my breakfast, I went straight to writing because it was the only thing I really felt like doing. Waking up before noon is so lovely... Why can't I do it more often?
Anyways, I wrote until Liv and the parents came home, and then I kept writing for a long time after that. I talked with Liv a little, which was nice. I still feel weirdly crushed and exhausted after spending like four days with her–
Ah! God damn! My mom got an email from Pat like two whole weeks ago about appointments! And then she was all, "Bero, you have to remind me," and like??? I have been asking her to contact Pat for weeeeeekkks and I don't even know why she's saying that! Why is she saying that? Like, I don't blame her for forgetting that the e-mail was there. She's got, like, a million emails. She always says that when we miss something. "Bero, you have to remind me."
Momma. I love her, though.
Okay. Anyway. Eventually, Liv left to go to a pool party at Brennan's house. With my parents. Also Adrian. Which, in my head, was weird. I mean. Two of my friends are going to a pool part at my parents' friends house??? (And Brennan, but. You know) Parents, who are not even bringing their actual children??!?!?!! It's weird. But mostly I didn't think about it.
I think they had fun. Mom said Adrian did a very Adrian-type thing. They don't know him very well, so she didn't say that exactly, but the situation she described was just very. Adrian.
My parents waited outside his house for a long time, with Liv having gone in to fetch him, and this was apparently because Adrian lost his phone. His mom was, apparently, like, "As punishment you have to bring your guitar," or at least that's how my parents phrased it.
Which seems weird. I know Adrian's mom. I love her. She's weird, but I mean, sending your son off to a stranger's pool party with a guitar just seems bizarre. Perhaps I missed something. Yeah, probably.
Annnnd yeah. Turns out Adrian's phone had been in his pocket the whole time.
Very Adrian, I'm telling you.
I didn't go to the party because I didn't want to. Am I just boring or something? I'm just not enthusiastic at all about these situations that Liv and Adrian are content to dive blindly into. Extroverts, I tell you. They make no sense to me.
I wish that they did.
I wish I had this urge that they have.
But I spent the day writing. Seriously, I went for six hours straight. At five o' clock, I was finally too drained to keep going. Weird how, yeah, it does drain you. I'm probably gonna do a bit more after I finish this entry, though.
I'm okay. I'm good.
Last night, I did get this one terrible urge. I wanted really badly to hurt myself. Not because I hated any particular part of me, just so that something else would occupy the space in my mind taken up by this... I dunno, electric bundle of pure shit.
Physically, it was almost painful. I settled for bouncing my hands on my hip bones, as if I were breaking a zip tie only not as forceful. It didn't leave a bruise or anything, it was only to distract me for a little while, and eventually I got to sleep and when I woke up, it had passed.
It came back a little today, but I think I wrote it away or something.
That was just weird to me. It was so strong! So weiiiirrrrd.
Maybe it was in part caused by the movie we watched? I dunno. It was my own stuff driving it, but still. We watched Short Term 12 and I forced myself to withhold tears because I didn't feel like doing all that in front of my family.
Liv said she didn't want to cry and when I asked why, she was all, "Because you'll make fun of me!"
I said, "No I won't!" Pause. "Unless it's really stupid." Pause. "I'm kidding." I think.
Sucks that she actually thinks that, though.
But really. Short Term 12 is a good movie and all, but it just sort of hurts to watch. Personally, it hurt me because weirdly enough that foster home was the closest thing – in a movie – to the hospital that I've seen yet.
With the dorm furniture, group meetings, screaming kids who sometimes wouldn't get out of bed, the freak-outs in which staff would have to sprint in order to catch them. Rec period, with kickball in one of the grass patches outside, medication in paper cups, just. Everything, pretty much. Except this was a more long-term facility while the hospital was a spit-you-out type thing.
Gah, but I don't wanna think about that anymore.
The movie was just heart wrenching in general, but it was that part in particular that got to me, I think. Kind of. When I think about it, I don't remember being very affected past the initial shock of recognition.
Ugh, ugh, I don't like the above. I'm very content with today. I'm glad I was so productive. Not school-wise, which I will definitely regret by Friday, but. Still.
Yo! My Grandpa sent me an e-mail and it was so nice! The other night I sent my Grandma an email and (I've edited it sliiiightly because errors yo. Note: Boo is my Grandpa's nickname for me):
Dear aka Veronica (where's Boo?) -
your e-mail was forwarded to my inbox so I got to read it. First impression is how well you write, flowing and honest and intelligent! I feel proud of you.
I've talked to your dad about your future and I want you to know one of the few very important roles I aspire to is to be an influence on your future.
Of course your Dad's guidance is paramount, but I offer you whatever wisdom age bestows – but I have to admit you are a new person now, about to face Big decisions, all the while feeling clamoration in your gut where unfriendlies eat away.
I want to know the new you, the one that wrote with so much heart.
Luv granpapa (short form is "gp")
I'm going to nap now, to watch the Warriors in their moment of Truth!
This was weird for me to read. My Grandma is more of a talker than my Grandpa, always has been as long as I've known them, so I am closer to her. She talks about her life and teaches me life lessons ("teaches" – honestly, most of the wisdom she bestows are things I've learned myself, but I still like listening sometimes).
Actually, I've always been kind of afraid of my grandpa. My earliest memory of him is me tugging on his white beard while sitting in his lap and someone telling me to stop.
And it's weird how he says he wants to get to know the "new me." I am pretty much the same gal I was when I saw him at Christmas. It just reminds me that I write in a way that is different from who I am in person...
Which makes me wary. Yeah, I could start writing to my grandpa, but then he'll see me expecting this person who typed up all the e-mails he got and. People get disappointed in me. That's my main hurdle, in making internet friends. Now, okay, Grandpa is family, I know, but it's not that different.
My grandpa, he went to Berkeley. My dad says it's because he wants me to live closer to them, and Berkeley is... an hour away? Two hours? Not very far, in any case. Dad, meanwhile, doesn't want me to go to Berkeley. He thinks it's too big a university. I wouldn't mind being closer to my family, though. He's like, "How about Stanford, then?" and I'm like, "Dad, I can't get into Stanford," because. Y'know. That's literally the #1 school in the country.
I thought the compliments were lovely. People always say those types of things about my writing, which is nice, to think I'm consistent. It means a lot, that people actually think I'm honest. I'm really not. Not all the way.
I wish I could understand this whole, "flowing and honest and intelligent,"
idea that Grandpa has about my writing. I really can't see it.
I appreciate it anyways.
Okay, it's almost ten PM now. Gotta go, yo's.