Boredom rules all.

11:07
I noticed this morning, after posting the last blog, that the time the site shows is when I start the blog, not when I finish and post. So I've decided to put the times at the beginning and ending to see how long it actually takes and when I actually finished.

Still bored stupid but not thinking about dying anymore. An improvement, I think. Our pop machines just got restocked. I was walking to my dorm building and saw the Coke truck pulling out of the back parking lot and thought 'I think the pop machines got filled'. So I baught a Coke. Now, when it comes to Coke vs. Pepsi, I'm usually a water person, but I haven't had any thick, syrupy, artificially flavored, sugar filled liquids in several weeks, so I've decided to indulge. And it is good.

So. Perhaps some of you remember that I'm on medication. What kind? Citalopram, an anti-depressant. Oh yeah, you say. That makes sense, since she told us she's depressed. But, why am I depressed, you ask? To be honest, I have no effing clue. I just am. Before we start, I need to let you know that what I'll write may bother you as there will likely be mention of blood. Here's what I remember of what's happened in the past three years:

Tenth grade, February.
The winter Olympics were going on, I was in Health and Science with the same teacher back-to-back, Health had too many students and, as the last one alphabetically, I had to sit at the table next to his desk and turn completely around to stare at his back during lectures. Yay.

I began to do odd things. In Science one day, I began biting my nails. This was strange because that habit had been broken on my braces that had only come off at the start of the school year. Later on, I did this at home and my mom noticed and asked. I honestly didn't know why.
In English one day I was taking a test and the thought of jabbing my pencil through my hand came to mind. I did not like this idea. It scared the crap out of me.

Mostly I was scared because a bunch of stuff was going on. The nail biting, the vivid image of the pencil in my hand, and some other off-putting thoughts. If these things had been more spaced out or increased their frequency more slowly, I wouldn't have been worried, but it all happened at once. I didn't know what to do.

I wanted to tell my teacher, but this was first period. More students would be coming in and I had another class to go to. So at some point I decided to tell my History teacher. Partly because that was my last class and partly because I really liked and trusted him. When I finally write a book there will be a dedication to him.

But how to tell him? "Mr. Bocian, this morning I thought about hurting myself"? Just saying it seemed too hard, so I wrote a note. I left it for him, but he didn't find it that day. Which, honestly, was my fault. The next morning I went in and picked it up before a student found it. The rest of the day I was thinking about it. How to get it to him?

In class that day we were taking a quiz or a test. I couldn't focus. I was just sitting, staring at him, wishing he would look at me and ask what was wrong. Or just know. Or something. Then he looked at me. And asked if he could help me or something (I can't remember exactly). I stood up, went to his desk, put down the note, and then took my quiz. After a few minutes he said my name and told me he would talk to me after class.

I'm aware that the note was very self-pitying and full of low-self-esteem and guilt-tripping techniques. I was aware of it when I gave it to him. I didn't want it to be, but it was how I was feeling. I wrote what had happened the past few days and that I would like to talk to him. That if he didn't want to, I would understand. I felt bad saying these things, because I should have known he would talk to me no matter what, but I didnt' want him to feel obligated, and... I just didn't know what to say.

After class I spoke to him and the vice-principal. My sister came in for a second, wondering where I was, and I told her I'd be there soon. I asked them to call my mom and let her know I needed to talk to her. When we got home she told me Bocian had called but hadn't told what I'd said. The next night, Saturday, I told my mom on the way to my grandma's for the night. Then I started seeing my therapist.

My friends from Middle School weren't paying much attention to me anymore, but I was making friends my sister's age (she was a freshman at the time). For about two and a half years I visited my therapist every other week or so. I was at camp all summer, so visits were more spread out then, and some stuff happened there, too.

I was working in the barn and was trying to help a younger girl with her horse (she was afraid of him and I was trying to...tack? or bridal?) and I got yelled at by a counselor. I really like this counselor but she made me feel like shit. I ended up sitting down somewhere, and to make it worse I then thought of getting drawn and quartered. Drawn and quartered! What is wrong with me?! I ended up crying because I was scared of the thought, though it was more of a picture in my mind because I couldn't put the words 'drawn and quartered' to it then, and I was upset by the way I was treated. I had just been trying to help!

Eventually, like this past winter/spring, I managed to convey to my therapist that these 'suicidal thoughts' were more of 'horrifying images of being injured'. Quite the difference there. She had me visit a coleague who specializes in recognizing disorders like OCD, because she thought that may possibly be what I had.

Well, in the end, I don't have OCD, but I have some tendencies, and I have a mild blood-phobia. I knew that much. If you had asked me anytime in the past ten years to pick a phobia that I might have, I would have said, without much hesitation, "Hemaphobia." It was just obvious to me. But whatever.

So we decided that, if I was going to try meds, I needed to start them sooner than later, because starting a new medication while working at a summer camp or starting college and being away from my therapist would be a bad idea. A very bad idea. The meds made me feel so much better at first. And even for a while after 'at first'. I'm starting to think maybe we should up the dose again, but I don't know.

Anyway... That's pretty much how I got to yesterday. Sometimes I have days like that, where I just hate everything and sorta want to die, and sometimes I have great days, where I love everything and am glad to be alive. Sometimes I have inbetween days, which are the most common, though the 'happy' days are definitely the least common.

...I think that's all I have for now. Still bored and still an hour until class. I guess I'll just be...bored then. Huh. I hate boredom.

Anyway, thanks for reading this crap, and I hope you understand me a little better. If you leave a comment, go ahead and ask me something about my life. Or my beliefs or opinions or something.

Until next time, take care.~
11:56