I feel like I have been sick forever. Blllaaaaahhhhhhrrrrgggkkkphg. I hate it. I hate not feeling good. I hate not being able to do everything I want to do. So its decided. He needs to be thinking about other things and so do I. I just hope I am being smart about this. *sigh* I skipped school yesterday, slept till four. It was excellent. I woke up all sweaty and my head felt like it was being split with a very dull axe. But I feel better today, better than I did. And I am trying to lose weight. More weight. I figure this whole being sick puking thing might give me a push in the right direction. Puking every other day would make it very hard for me to gain weight. And my mother is on a health kick, so all I have been eating to throw up is health food. And I am going to call the people today. To find out if I am sick. It is so easy to just erase a part of your life. It is so easy to just "forget" that peice of memory, to just bury it under layers of justifications and emotions and dreams. It is so easy to forget the plans you had the things you've done. It is so easy to just repress. Repress the memory, repress your feelings, repress the darker thoughts. "Express not repress." Dont do it. Just repress. Just hide away anything that may be precious to you. Hide those tear-wrought moments. Hide who you are. Repression is the key to any problem. Of course what you repress is liable to come up again if you are not careful. It may rise from the bog like some skeletal ancient beast and haunt you. But dont worry, you can repress those moments too. Yet, as much as this plan has worked for me (haha), I am getting tired of holding it all in. I have almost uncontrolable craving, no, urges, to just scream and cry and spit and yell and shout and laugh and tell all of the world anything, everything, untill all of this repressed caches of so much crap is exhausted... and then I can lay down and sleep. I want that so badly but I am scared. It scares me when people know. When people know these things that I try so desperatly to hide. I push them away. Who needs people when I have my secrets? When I have my precious memories to also push away. I push away everything. Almost everything. I keep my pride. My pleasure. I live to be happy. I keep those I want to keep safe, you may laugh, I know some who have. "You can barely protect yourself, how could you protect anyone else?" I dont know. But I want to try. I want to try to shelter them, try to make sure they dont get hurt, and if they do, try my best to kiss the wound better and put a bandaide on it. I know I cant. I know I cant do alot of things. I know that eventually I am going to break, and everyone will realize (if they already havent) that it is all my fault. I havent been the best friend, the best daughter, the best sister, the best neighbor, the best anything. I havent been the best at anything. I try, and when I fail I try to cover up my failure with pitiful contentions that try to cover my hurt pride. My pride. Always my pride. Pride leads to selfishness, vanity, gluttony. Pride is probobly the root of the other six sins. From pride spouts everything else. Me me me, always me. I havent lived. I have shortened my memory to that of a goldfish. Do I remember? Do I feel? Do I really want to live like this? I dont know. I look forward, never back. If you are concentrating on the scenery past then you are probobly going to trip on the future. Look ahead. My eyes have been dry for a long time. I didnt think I would cry again. I thought I had repressed enough. Here it is, the bog creature, rising to haunt you. Dont worry, just repress it. ... You ask me what it feels like. You ask me "is it beautiful?" You ask what I have done. You ask stupid questions. Do you really want to know, girl? Do you honestly want me to describe it to you? It is vulgar, crude, the simplicity of carnal desires. But you want to know. Because you dont know. You dont know what it is like, to slowly remove ones clothes and bare your quivering body to scrutinous eyes. You dont know the rush that you may feel as your naked skin touches anothers, or the feeling of being touched and kissed everywhere you have never been before. You dont know how your breath may catch in your throat or how your heart beats faster if he breaths in your ear. You dont know the pain you have at first, how clumsy you will be. You dont know what it is to give yourself completly to someone. How your sweat will mingle or how hard it is to breath. You dont know the feeling of being truly animal. How your rythym will get off because one of you has to stretch or snarl. You feel like such an adult but you arent. I wasnt. As mature as I thought I was, I was still a child. I am ashamed. But you dont know what thats like. You dont know how it hurts, or how it smells. You could never recognize that particular scent because you have never had the opportunity to. It stinks. Disgusting. It stains, and it sticks, and it is vulgar. But you think its beautiful. You dont know what it feels like to be empty. Truly empty of everything. "La petite mort". You dont know. I bled, I cried, and then I hungrily bit into flesh in passion. You are too young to be in love. Love is unhealthy for you. I cry now, remembering. I was so stupid. But you dont know. I know what it is to not know, and to be so curious and so full of hormones that you are entirely willing to. I know how it feels to be told not to, to be told it isnt worth it, to be told that I dont know. I know that. So do you. Are you willing to risk it? To try and seep into your pores because it made you feel so good for one small moment in time. Its a drug. Its like taking all of those pills so you can feel good for a short while. Laying on your back, arms spread, staring at the ceiling and talking just to talk, just because you can. Go to sleep thinking you may never wake up after this, and then being so dissapointed that you did. Fearing the shadows that live in your mind, fearing the night and its dark places, yet taking it in as much as you can because you enjoy the fear. The feelings. When the fine hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and a breeze that blow across your face in a closed empty room. To have been there before, to have heard it before, and to feel your face draining of blood and your body heavily hit the floor. You long to feel because after the first time you cannot feel as much as you did before you did it. Give yourself over to lust and passion and feeling good over and over untill it becomes second nature, it becomes who you are. To think you're in love. To breath him in and then be left to indifference and doubt. It is sick. Like watching the tendrils of your own blood slowly dissapear in cold water. ... But I guess you can just repress it.