catharsis_logs: (reminder to dance like hell)
[personal profile] catharsis_logs
Not feeling too hot. Just got done crying like a child in the dark in the bathroom, smothering my tears in my baby blanket. I stupidly feel like I don't have a good enough 'excuse' to act out because I've been feeling shitty. Like my sister can shatter her fucking mirror because of the way her ex treated her and how she feels about that, but that was a 'good' reason as opposed to my own 'reasonless' PTSD and anxiety and depression.

I have this weird desire to be taken care of. Like an ill child. It's a fucked up reason why I like hospitals instead of hate them like normal people, because the people there are obligated to take care of me and if they don't then I have a good reason to complain about my treatment. So, I want to go to the hospital. I want to hurt myself in some way. Just enough to not die, but enough to justify treatment and 'accidental' enough to be covered by the insurance I no longer have.

I always need an 'excuse' to freak the fuck out and tonight I got a doozy of a reason (sortof). My godfather potentially has prostate cancer and had to be taken out of school (where he teaches) in an ambulance because of severe chest pains. The whole prostate cancer potential diagnoses came after when the doctor there told him to go see a urologist. And aparently he had some sort of test, where if you score like 500 on the thing then there's a good chance of cancer ahead and his fucking results said something like 5,000. Then my dad goes ahead and says that that particular test isn't really all that reliable and I'm like THEN WHY USE THE FUCKING TEST??? If there's a GOOD CHANCE THAT THE TEST IS WRONG THEN IT PROBABLY ISN'T A TEST YOU SHOULD BE USING GODDAMMIT.

And then my psyche decides to leap on top of me like a belly flop into the waters of my depression, causing a whole bunch of fucking ripples everywhere and then my grief reminds me that I really miss my dog and then I get mad at my sister for being able to express her emotions in a more free manner than I feel I can allow myself (for some fucking reason even I don't know why I do it, survival mechanism from when my mom was alive, no emotions besides her emotions were allowed into the mixture and my sister's were only allowed because she didn't fucking care.)

And then my dad has been pestering me about my writing, and how I'm doing and when am I going to get published? And I get to grit my teeth and lie about how I'm working on it and it's going fine and then he comes home today from Portland and says that my godmother is also asking about how my writing is going. And I'm really fucking tempted to tell them to never talk to me about writing again because it's too fucking much.


Potential idea for other jobs:
Massage therapist
Helicopter pilot
EMT/Ambulance driver
Receptionist/Secretary
President of the United States (because if a cheeto can get it surely I can???)
Senator/Politician (even if I suck at public speaking)
Beekeeper (even tho I'm scared shitless of bees)
Ghostwriter
Artificial intelligence educator
Colonist of a new planet
First almost complete cyborg (head in jar a la Futurama)
Pathologist
Mortician/Funeral director
911 operator
Musician (in an orchestra or private or teacher etc)
Sign language interpreter
Foreign language interpreter (once I learn a new language)
Tax adviser
University professor (with tenure, hey I can dream right? Again disregarding lack of public speaking ability)
Website manager
Video game producer/programmer
Internet security adviser
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Alexander

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