Facebook is death.
I seriously had a problem with that site. Five minutes ago I deleted half a dozen life stealing apps from my account. I was completely addicted, to the point of having a second account so I could spam my wall with "Help me with this challenge!"-type posts without feeling like an idiot. I had over 1100 friends on that account, and we were all in it together, a bunch of spamming, gaming, time wasting sacks of potatoes.
I'm glad to be rid of it. I wish it were as permanent as pouring a bottle down the sink. Unfortunately I can reactivate my account, and the games all store my data for a few months. Chances are I won't. I'd hate myself too much if I reactivated.
My hope is that this will motivate me to read more, or draw, or write. I looked myself in the mirror today and saw my messy, unshowered hair, my mascara-spotted cheeks, my visible ribcage and slouching posture and recognized just how much of a mess I am, as if I was seeing myself from someone else's perspective.
A friend and former boss mentioned on facebook that he was working on a production budget today, and I started to write, "Got any room for me in there?" But it turned into, "Got any room in there for an anxious, depressed, unreliable, barely functional addict with a history of mental breakdowns and way too much drama in her life?"
Claro que no lo envié. Maybe I'll get back to studying french. Probablement, je vrai étude français. I'm not sure if that was right.
I was driven to learn French, and continue learning Spanish, by a strong need to run away from everything. I know disappearing into Europe was always a fantasy, but I bought into it and didn't want to admit to how unrealistic it is for me. It's so romantic an idea, and it's so depressing to be stuck here. It's oppressive! It's all strings, they're attached to everything, they tie everything down to be buried.
Suicide isn't really an option for me, but sometimes that's a nice fantasy too. That sounds kind of disturbing, I know. It's more extreme than doing whatever it takes to get to a foreign country with a foreign language and have no home, money or backup plan. That's really my first option if I'm looking for a way out. It certainly carries a decent chance of finding myself turned into a skin-sweater or being raped or worse, but it does have a higher survival rate than suicide.
I remember in high school, when I was severely suicidal, I'd leave the house at 11pm and wander down to the dirtier areas of Lowell, hoping to find myself as a statistic. It was like sky diving, but a lot more depressing and frustrating.
This is me on a down note, when I'm more depressed than anxious. Generally, especially while I'm alone, I'm either like this or I'm totally freaked out and am trying to calm down. Middle ground shows up from time to time, especially when I'm distracting myself with good conversation or company. Sometimes, some people have this fantastic soothing influence on me, I feel safe, my anxiety diminishes and I can't feel so depressed. It's the people who don't come with so many strings attached, who are interested or care about me without expectation.
This is one of those posts that toes the line between public and private. I'll leave it public, but maybe some day I'll hide it away.