I know drawing is a skill that can only be improved on through practice, but I’m still impatient. My art skills don’t seem to be going anywhere, and I KNOW it’s because I haven’t been “practicing” for very long, but still, I’m frustrated.
Just when I think I’ve been getting a little better, I realize that I’m doing something wrong and have to start over. I spent a long while drawing faces until I realized that the reason they all looked “funny” was because I hadn’t gotten the basic proportions right (the eyes had been too high up, so the forehead was weird and too flat).
And I haven’t even attempted to color anything yet–I know I’d kill even a decent sketch by trying to add color to it.
I write better than I draw, but I can’t find the proper motivation to write anything… I haven’t written anything (besides school essays, of course) in a long time. I feel tremendously guilty for that T_T How can I call myself a “writer” if I don’t write?
Only one week of summer break has gone by, but I already feel anxious and depressed and stressed. There’s not even a particular reason for it. I only have two things to do for school this fall semester: a math packet for calculus and a summer reading/essay project for English. Yet I’m feeling nervous and out of breath, like I’m running out of time… I’m just PANICKING FOR NO REASON. I’m in a weird sort of limbo where I’m constantly tired/exhausted while simultaneously being buzzed with fear and an overwhelming sense of doom/dread/terror/anxiety/whatever. I’m sad and afraid, yet also apathetic and listless. It’s bizarre. Even thinking of dying isn’t… I thought I had gotten better, but apparently I’m just as emotionally disturbed as ever. I’ve always thought about dying; I just wouldn’t want to cause my younger sister any emotional trauma by doing it, or tear another big rift in my family, which is already very split. Sometimes it seems appealing, though. These thoughts are why I hate 13 Reasons Why, which is just capitalizing off the lie that someone who commits suicide just wants revenge on the people around them. I hate that show. I’m sure the actors are lovely, but the show is disgusting, and its fanfiction is even more disgusting and indulgent. The show makes it seem as if suicide, as if killing yourself, makes people miss you? love you? and think of you? As if that’s not the lie that I believed in when I was fourteen and so so so ready to just slit my wrists and be done with it all because I thought that people would miss me, regret ignoring or bullying me, magically feel guilty for my death, remember me as a saint. I had to try so hard to stop believing that, and to remember that even if people realized they loved me, I would still be too fucking dead to feel it or to tell them that I loved them back. And sometimes I still do believe this lie and it’s terrible, because that’s the worst lie to believe in, right after the lie that says that the world would be better off without you in it.
I just hate 13 Reasons, yo. I hate it.
Sooner or later I’m going to have a mental breakdown, a real big one that’ll destroy any bit of emotional stability that I still have, and I’m going to be sent to the hospital and sedated and diagnosed with some emotional/personality/mental disorder. Sometimes I wonder if taking pills would help me. They probably wouldn’t. I’m probably not to be trusted with pills anyway, since my body is weirdly sensitive to any and all forms of chemical stimulation, and even taking the max amount of six Ibuprofen pills a day has made me lose an entire night of sleep and two meals in a row (the box said two pills a time, three times a day… but I can only take one at a time because too many will buzz me up). I can’t even take cold medicine without either feeling dangerously drowsy or stupidly jittery. Good thing I don’t have to rely on coffee to feel awake. One can of soda is capable of making me lose about three hours of sleep. Maybe this is all just because I’m a pretty small person (5’3″ maybe and under 100 lbs) and I don’t ingest a lot of chemicals/sugar/caffeine anyway.