I am miserable.
I’ve been thinking a lot about teaching tonight (I think that’s why I can’t sleep). I miss it. Rather a lot. But I know that it’s not good for me. Or rather, I’m not good for me when I’m doing it.
I’m not doing terribly well at the moment. I keep having strange dreams and then in the morning I turn into Freud, trying to analyse them. As it turns out, what they’re telling me is that my life is a tad haywire and things are messy. Accurate.
Things are a bit messy. But they’re always messy so I don’t know why I’m surprised.
Things are hard. Things need to change. I need to change. I haven’t purged in a few weeks but I have been eating too much, resulting in me gaining a lot of weight.
I hate it; I feel disgusting.
I’m trying to suppress emotions, I know that. At least they’re not presenting themselves as they usually do (SH) although I have been having those thoughts recently.
It’s like, I’m not presenting behaviours that I previously did so how can I even tell someone what’s going on?
I’ve been telling myself that I’m fine, that things are different now and I’m better but, secretly, I don’t think I am.
And what if it all blows up when studying begins again. I can’t quit Uni again because of it. I didn’t even declare, on my application form, that I suffered from mental health difficulties.
Or maybe it’s just noting. Maybe I’m just imagining it. Maybe I’m being paranoid.
I don’t know what to do.
I am grade 12 student who has just recently graduated. You might call me accomplished, and in a way, I am, but not in the way you’d think. 12 years of pouring over text books and being lined up to be judged in front of my peers has not made me any more intelligent. I can tell you the first 45 digits of Pi and I can explain to you the difference between an acid and a base, I can recite the Pythagorean Theorem in my sleep, I will recite lines out of a textbook like they are a religion. But I cannot tell you the value of security, or of kindness. The distinct contrast between personal health and personal gain. I can tell you in grade 10 four of my classmates attempted to take their own lives before finals. I can tell you our counsellors office is always booked. I can tell you how when I didn’t understand something in AP Chemistry my teacher asked me to leave if I could not participate in his class. I merely asked him to explain a question. Instead of doing his job and teaching, he told me to leave. Told me I was not good enough to be there. Mistakes are viewed as failure in these hallways. A wrong answer is a sin you must atone to, not a human error, but a flaw so grand it defines your entire life course. There is no “average” here. We all must exceed expectations. Do your parents know that a grade that is considered average is a “C”? When I got a C in fourth grade my parents grounded me for a month. They said I was lazy and stupid and incompetent and that I’d better smarten up and stop fooling around. I never fooled around. I am driven by a deep need to impress others. I never fool around. I worked and worked and worked, with a deep hollow of anxiety in my chest. I have never been good at History, but I worked and worked and I attained at best a low B. It was not good enough. It is not said but we are expected to put our education before our personal health. It is not asked of us, but it is what we must do to achieve what we are asked to achieve. Our teachers will tell you, “Oh, I only give them one hour of homework each night.” Which is essentially true, each of my five teachers only gives me one to two hours of homework each night. Hmm, that adds up to 5-10 hours of homework, and overdue classwork, and projects. Say goodbye to sleep, say goodbye to feeling calm. I’ve developed a deep rooted anxiety disorder due to school and perfectionistic tendencies. Even when you get 100 percent on an assignment they still criticise you, it is never good enough. One slip, and you are in deep deep trouble. I can tell you that 90 percent of us try our hardest, and our teachers and parents stand in the sidelines, screaming, “You can do better than that!”
I wish I could tell her. I just wish I could muster the courage to say the words.
But I can’t.
My best friend knows that I’ve been unwell in the past. Although I’ve not explicitly said the words (she knows about the depression and the self harm, I think) but not about the bulimia.
There’s just something that stops me saying the words. I don’t know why.
I just wish I could tell her but then I ask myself why I feel I need to tell her. I mean, it’s all supposed to be over now so why drag up the past? I don’t know, it’s just weird.
I saw my former therapist today. It was strange but it was nice. We chatted for a bit and, I don’t know, it was just nice.
I have a secret.
I’ve had a fair few secrets in my time, only some of which have been revealed.
But sometimes things just can’t be said. They’d never accept it.
They’d never look at me the same; they may never speak to me again.
Yet this secret is tearing me apart. My skin crawls at the thought of it; it’s not right. My mind is racing. I’m not making any sense.
I’m feeling fragile tonight. And I can’t sleep.
I feel empty. And deflated. Like a beachball in the middle of winter. I can’t concentrate on the work I’ve to do; I just want to curl up and sleep but I know I can’t. I feel overwhelmed and lost.
I don’t know what to do.