The Chaotic Void

Otherwise known as "my life."

Have you ever noticed that as soon as you get one problem fixed, another one is ready and willing to takes its place? And how is that even fair? Let's not talk about it.

Do you know what one thing I hate is? I hate spending money on myself. I really do. I hate buying things for me with a passion. I occasionally do it, thinking that I deserve a pick-me-up, and that somehow buying this adorable shirt or addictive movie will help me feel better. However, I always regret it. And don't get me wrong; I have excellent taste in both shirts and movies.


But after I buy it, I immediately regret it. I don't need whatever I just bought. And the money I spent on what I don't need could have been spent on something else. For someone else.

I adore buying things for other people. Whenever I buy something for myself, all I can think about is what I could have bought for someone else with that same money. And then it's very hard for me to enjoy whatever it is I just bought.

I am thinking about this because tonight I bought myself some new underwear (because who doesn't feel better when they know that they're wearing cute underwear?) and a couple of dresses that were on sale for $5 each. I spent about $20 altogether. Which, comparatively speaking, isn't much. I mean, most shirts are like $15, and most people spend WAY more on themselves than that when they buy something. But all I can think is, "I could have bought this book for my sister. I could have bought this card for AOK. I could have bought this movie for Elsa." It's frustrating.

Man I feel like crap. I don't even know why I feel like crap. I have random, strong urges to do myself injury. Not necessarily physical injury, either. I just get these urges to hurt myself, or to do things that I know will be detrimental to my emotional stability. I'm getting impulsive and careless, and it scares me.

Case in point: I forgot to go to class the other day. I completely skipped fifth hour. I went from fourth hour to sixth hour. And I didn't even realize I'd missed fifth hour until five minutes before it was over. In addition, I am getting to school late. Late. Me! And I'm procrastinating even more than usually. Which is hard to pull off. And mostly results in things not getting done ever.

Something else to worry about: My therapist wants me to get an examination because of what happened with Han, to make sure everything is alright physically. This is fine by me, except for trying to get to the doctor without Mom and/or Dad knowing where I'm going. They are very strict about knowing where I am and what I'm doing at all times. I hate to miss more school, but I already have to take finals, so I'll probably just have to schedule the appointment during school and get a doctor's note for the attendance. But it is still stressing me out.

Okay I'm going to start talking about what I was talking about earlier again. Impulsive. Careless. Self-destructive.

I read a book once called The Thirteenth Tale.

It's a really good book. In it, there are two twins: Adeline and Emmeline. They're interesting girls. Adeline is violent and dominant, while Emmeline is submissive and quiet. Adeline constantly attacks Emmeline and will do things just to make life harder for her twin. Emmeline bears all of Adeline's abuse and does everything she can to help her sister despite it.

That's what I feel like I'm doing. I feel like I'm attacking myself and I'm just sitting there taking it, and even trying to make myself happy despite the fact that I'm abusive to myself. What? Okay so that makes no sense. See the confusion?

<3 o.

p.s. : The image is from postsecret. Duh.

p.p.s. : Did you notice how unorganized this post was? That's how my brain is all the time anymore. Nothing is every organized. Everything is scattered all over the place, like a book that's had its pages torn out by a poorly disciplined child. Ugh.

A Room Without Books Is Like A Body Without A Soul

-Marcus Tullius Cicero

Have I ever been more content, especially in the last several weeks, than I have been while roaming the shelves of our school's library? Probably not. I can think of very few things that bring me more joy than to select a book not-quite-at-random (I do have my own ill-defined standards) and to read some lines, paragraphs, or pages. I also like to take a look at its history; how often has it been checked out, when, and by whom? I am always sad when I find a book that has never been checked out. How sad! Sometimes, if I find a check-out card that is fairly full (of stamps, varied handwriting with different colored ink, and lots of names), or has a familiar name (such as that of a teacher's), or hasn't been checked out in a while (but was quite popular in 1978), I will steal the card. I suppose that, to these books, I am something like the Grim Reaper. What are these cards to these books? Their memories, their souls, their pasts? Are they grieved to be parted with the cards? Are they looking forward to a new card? Or are they just books who could really care less about the piece of cardstock in the pocket glued in their cover?

Whatever.

You know I love books, and I would never intentionally hurt their feelings. Books are the only reliable escape for me and so many others. Movies are good, yes, but they are over so quickly, and there are some things that you can capture in a book that you just can't get in a movie. It is difficult to explain - but if you have ever read such books as Wuthering Heights or The Thirteenth Tale or any book that delves deeper than just what happens, then you can understand. With a movie, it is hard to capture any more than just what happens. In a book, there are no such limits. Your mind isn't limited to just what happens. If you are lucky enough to have found a good book, you are consumed by what happens, why it happens, who these people are, why they are who they are, their interactions, their feelings, thoughts, questions, uncertainties... You can become completely lost in just one character of a good book, nevermind the all-involving story!

I love the characters. Every time I open a book, I can't wait to meet the characters. I am always looking for one to connect with, and once I do, I emulate them. I think I can honestly say that my personality is a mesh of the characters I have met, adored, and mimicked throughout my life. My stubbornness and fits of passion? Catherine Earnshaw/Linton. My ability to be manipulated and attraction to mystery? Christine Daae. My desire to shock and surprise and be strong? Felicity (Gemma Doyle Trilogy). My belief that you should always help if you can? Samantha (American Girls). May I point at that there are some contradictions in some of those qualities? That would account for my confusion. I am constantly trying to decide: Is it more desirable to be like this character or like this character? In each book, each character is presented as the most desirable... none of them are presented objectively. So trying to emulate all of them is a very confusing and self-contradicting process. Not even just self-contradicting, but other-character-contradicting.

Being wild and without inhibitions is intimidating, but intriguing. Being gentle and generous is defenseless, but offers an opportunity to be defended. Pessimism is unromantic in its negativity but romantic in its possibility to be denied and defeated. Optimism is unromantic in its lack of need, but romantic in its endless joy. I have spent my entire life reading, absorbing traits from all over the specturm, and observing their advantages. I want to be both ends of all spectrums - I can't be - but in any situation, I am instinctively moved to be both. This is confusing in oh-so-many ways. Not only am I confused now by what I want to be, by my lack of knowing which is better to be, but I am also confused by the fact that I don't know what I really am. Without the influence of any books or characters, where on these spectrums would I fall all on my own? I think it's too late to ever know for sure.

I have quoted Muriel Rukeyser before, in August, as having said, "The world is up of stories, not atoms." I want to remind you of the truth of that. I, for one, am certainly made up more of stories than atoms! I surely am not the only one. But, if I have to be made of anything other than atoms, stories are surely the best thing.

I have to admit that writing this post while sitting anywhere other than a library feels a tad bit like blasphemy; however, I have yet to encounter a library that will allow me to access my blog, and so I will simply have to cope.

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