Oh baby, it's not working out.

So much happens in such a little amount of time, and sometimes so much time passes by without a thing happening. I can't decide which it is for me and these past few months. It's both, and it's neither. I'm in complete limbo.
I've come to a conclusion. I won't ever achieve happiness, and I won't ever be loved romantically. I don't mean this in a sappy, "oh, nobody loves me" way. It's an honest-to-God conclusion that I have come to after realizing a few things about myself.
It's true. No one will ever love me the way I want to be loved. Kyle did, and I ended up feeling smothered. I felt trapped. He loved me in a way that you would describe as "unconditionally" with "no boundaries." He accepted me completely, fully. I accepted him only when he met my requirements, and when he failed to do so--I let him go. I sound heartless, don't I? But here's the thing--here's the problem--I'm not. I have so much feeling, so much emotion locked up, trapped, wanting to escape and be heard that it's absolutely painful and it's torturous and it's excruciatingly impossible to express it. There's nothing I can do.
I want to believe that everything happens for a reason, but I'm a very rational person and if I don't understand exactly why something has happened, I let it fuck me up completely. For once in my life, I trusted completely. I allowed myself to be loved in the way that I thought was acceptable, and returned the love that I thought was deserved to be given. Boyfriend #2. I did love him, and I let myself be completely free and spontaneous with myself, my feelings and my emotions. I let it happen. I didn't hold back. I thought--why should I? It all felt so good--until suddenly everything comes to the stereotypical "screeching halt"--and boom, it's over. You're thrown aside, and he's off to the next one.
So where am I now? I am in an awkward position where I like boy #3 a lot, but refuse to believe it. I don't believe a word he says. Every word that comes out of his mouth, I take as a joke and think he's up to something. I'm just a game. I'm just a fool, and he's going to have his way then laugh in my face.
Mother fucking trust issues. I'm holding on so tightly to this anger, this stubborn and painful problem I can't get past that I can't even imagine what it would feel like anymore to actually let go and live. What would it be like to just let things happen the way they're supposed to happen? What would it be like to not overanalyze everything--to not exaggerate every moment or thought or phrase or glance. To just take it as it is. I want this so bad.
I want nothing more than to be loved, accepted, and just content--but I've realized the chances are slim to none. And I guess I don't have a conclusion for my conclusion...just that I wish things were different, but I'm too tired--no, too scared to even give it another try.





Make sense?

The Song That Never Played.

I feel sick. My stomach is doing this thing where it feels like something is carving...slowly, tortuously, and deep as fuck. I can't decipher the feeling. Am I starving and just need to eat? No, because the thought of food is making me feel more sick. But then when I think no, I'm not hungry... I DO feel hungry. It must be my ulcer acting up again. It won't ever leave me alone. When I am at my lonliest, my ulcer comes back to remind me I am not. If only it were a certain person instead of a fucking ulcer. Come back and remind me that I am not alone.

I'm becoming this type of girl.

It has been almost a full three months since we last spoke. Three months, and however many pregnancy tests later, I have finally decided to let him go. There is no baby, even though I had this sick, sick, yearning that there was. Any reason to make him talk to me was good for me. But no. It's done, for fuck's sake.

I am getting rid of all the bad in my life. All the negatives. All the mistakes. All the regrets. Of course, I say this with ease now...but will I be able to actually go through with it? Yes, of course I will. I am strong enough (right?). It's about time I become this person I have always wanted to be. Shoulder back, head high, and a strut with the greatest "fuck you" attitude there ever was.

Ha. Who am I kidding, right? Every time I catch myself (off-guard) in the mirror, I noticed how weak and sluggish I look. I look so timid and so afraid of everything. What total bullshit, huh? To look a certain way, but to feel the polar opposite.

I am going to keep telling myself this until I believe it: I am fucking awesome. I am talented. I am smart. I am strong. I am beautiful. And fuck, you're NOT better than me.

I'm not that kind of girl.

One. By. One.

One by one. One. By. One.
One.

One by one.
Bye.

I am letting them go.
Bye. Bye. Bye
One.
By.
One.

Oh baby, you're time is running out.

Odd feeling.

I don't quite understand it, but I feel as though I am running out of time. Obviously, we're all running out of time. The clock keeps ticking, and time keeps passing, and we just keep aging. This is a fact. This is obvious. But I feel though I don't have much time left. My inner conscious keeps telling me to hurry, hurry, hurry. Do all these things before I run out of time. I feel as though I am living with some sort of deadly disease, and that at any moment now I will drop dead. This constant worry, rush, fear, and even anxiousness to get things done.

As far as I know, my general health is fine. Sure, there are a few knicks here and there but who doesn't have that? Maybe I should take better care of myself and get back on my 18+ meds a day that I haven't taken in well over a year. Who knows.

Today, I sat on my parent's bed and looking at myself in their mirror. It was a strange feeling. Like I was out of my own body, just staring at this person. I didn't recognize myself until my mom called me into the other room, and I was forced to "snap out of it." I decided today, I am going to try and be healthier. Instead of losing the weight I originally wanted to lose, I have only gained. I feel as though my entire body is swollen. Everything is getting bigger and it disgusts me more than you can imagine. I feel like a ogre. Like I'm towering over everybody, even though I am only (barely) 5'1. My thighs feel enormous, and all of a sudden I have this ridiculous ass I never imagined having. My hips are getting bigger, too. I know I'm not pregnant, but I keep convincing myself that I must be. Why else would I gain all this weight when my eating habits have not changed at all? Of course, I don't consider the fact that I was working at a very fast paced job in Chicago, running around like a dog for 9+ hours a day. Currently, I have what you people call a "desk job" and I can't stand it. The logical reasoning for this weight gain has to be the new job. No exercise is involved, therefore I grow ginormous hips/thighs/ass. Lovely.

I don't know what the point of this rant was...

I just don't want to feel like my life could be over at any minute. It's a horrible feeling, and it makes me nervous. I had a panic attack at work today, thinking I was going to die right there and then. For some reason, it just made sense. I just felt death. And I thought, "How embarrassing." What is so embarrassing about dying though? Seriously--pathetic. I did survive though, obviously. And I probably will survive every single one of those episodes until I'm old and grey, but the feeling is still terrifying and emotionally exhausting. I have become such a control freak that I don't want death to just suddenly approach me. I want to take control of my own death myself. I want to know exactly how and where and when I will die. Death will not control me.

Maybe this is where all these fears come from? I fear that Natural Death will beat me to my own Controlled Death/Death plans...and that I won't be prepared for it at all. PATHETIC.

Anyway. I need sleep and I need to stop thinking about death.

Last night I had a dream I was bar hopping with Johnny Depp again, and again...I kept trying to keep myself from kissing him. Maybe tonight I will just do it.

Oh boy, you've left me speechless.

My mom always said that distance makes the heart grow fonder, and I think she always hoped I would believe it, too. I did and do somewhat, but at the same time I cannot part from some of the people that I know. Distance may make the heart grow fonder in some, but in others...I'm not so sure. I'm terrified of being forgotten. Pushed aside. Replaced. Not given a shit about. You get my drift.

I am running out of things to say to people. Have you ever felt the things you want to talk to people about are of no importance to them? Like you're just wasting their time, and also your own because you're not getting the response you had hoped for? I don't know. For years, you were the person I wanted to talk to forever. Right now, I feel as thought I am finally satisfied. I am done. This is the end of our relationship, companionship, friendship, whatever-the-fuck-ship. I have nothing more to say, and I think you've said all you wanted to say as well, but don't want to admit it just yet.

Why am I writing about this? I am just wasting my time. Again. I keep wasting this precious amount of time that I have with pointless rants to myself in my head when I could be so much more productive. What is productivity when you're captive though? I have trapped myself. I'm dying to get out but I'm terrified to let it happen. Do people feel this way after prison? Relief that they are out, but terrified of what's on the other side of those bars?

I was going through boxes in the basement today and found a painting I had done in one of my classes back in the fifth grade. On the back of the painting, I had written "Paint a picture of your best friend." I remember now that it was during the week in school that my teacher had a mental breakdown and didn't show up for a number of days. The principle of our school came into our classroom and gave us a list of things to draw/paint. The was one of them. I thought it was funny, this many years later, and I still consider myself my best friend. I feel like patting my fifth grade self on the back and telling her, "Good. Good for you, Leda. You realized this at such a young age. You're so smart. Good." And then I think, maybe not.

Maybe it's just pathetic, like everything else I've done/thought/said/whatever-ed. Maybe if my fifth grade self instead painted a portrait of Leanne, by "bff" of the time, or Anna, or Diana, or Tamar...I would have turned out perfectly fine. And then I think, no. I did turn out perfectly fine. Anyone else who thinks they have a better friend then themselves is a completely and utter dumb ass for thinking so. Right? And then I think, how fucking selfish. Sometimes I really can be so selfish. And then I think, NO. I'm not fucking selfish enough. I SHOULD be more selfish.

And this is how my mind works. This is how my days go by lately. Just thoughts. Contradicting one another. Maybe this, but no...maybe that. But no, maybe this...but no, no--THAT.

Fuck you, brain.

She'll aways win, no matter what.

It has been a long time since my first entry. I am going to give this another shot.

It has been a little over two months since I have been back at home. It was a big move. A lot of change to adapt to. A lot of change to adapt to for obvious reasons: no more living on my own, no more independence, and...these tears should be a pretty obvious reason, too.

I feel pathetic. So utterly pathetic. I am not satisfied. I am not happy. I am not content. I am just living and breathing but with no real purpose or desire. I am doing this only for my family, because they would not want it any other way. I'm 23 and too old for suicidal thoughts, but they occur every now and then. Mostly I like to think about how I would do it, and then I hate thinking about my family finding me...and then I hate imagining what they would have to tell everyone else. And then I like to imagine who would show up to my funeral, who would cry, and who would regret not telling me something (and would he regret throwing it all away?). I like to imagine I would have written everyone a letter, and started it off with something along the lines of "Isn't it strange knowing these will be the last things I ever tell you?" I imagine I would tell them everything. Be completely honest, because...what does it matter now that I'm dead, right? But then I imagine at the very end, I would sugar coat it all and say something sweet to make sure we don't literally end on a bad note. I'm telling you: pathetic.

Let's talk about my funeral.

Would it be at our Armenian church? Considering the fact that it would be a suicide, it probably wouldn't be allowed. That would be so devastating for my parents...and having to bury me in a shitty graveyard because of it would devastate them as well. Who would show up? Will my friends from Chicago all take a day off of work to come and say their final goodbyes, or will they skip? Will they skip and maybe visit on another day? Wouldn't it be funny if my funeral was a road trip opportunity? Everyone gets together into a van and maybe they will all listen to my favorite songs and sing along. Or maybe they will not turn the stereo on and instead share fond memories of me. Or maybe they will just sit in silence, dressed in black, crying silently. Or wouldn't it be strange if they didn't find out until months later?...Kind of like I found out about Brigitte. It still haunts me. (Miss you, Brigitte.)
Would my family in Turkey show up to my funeral? Are funerals kind of like weddings in that way where out-of-town family members all fly in to be a part of it? I don't think people take funerals as seriously as weddings, and that blows my mind.
Would my parents keep it from my grandmothers, for the sake of their well being? When they ask to speak to me on the phone, will they hold back their tears and tell them I am asleep? Probably.
Would Fabian show up to my funeral? Would he cry? Would he hate that we haven't talked in so long, and would he hate the fact that he treated me like shit? Would he finally realize I never deserved any of it? Probably. Or so I'd like to imagine.
What about Michael? Would he even find out right away? Would Leda be the one to tell him, or will he try to contact me...call me, text me, and get a response from my sister saying I'm dead? Would he even come to my funeral, and if he did...how would he feel? How would he explain me to his wife...and would she be there, too? I don't know.
What about my journal? What will my parents think of me when they find my journal buried under stacks and stacks of clothing (that they will probably turn into dust rags or donate to charity)? They would have to read it. Of course they'd read it. Wouldn't you? What will they think of me when they found out all the things I did? They won't believe it was me. They may even think I was attempting to write a novel. But really, mom, it's the truth. It is the most honest I have ever been in my life and that journal means the world to me. That's why I think I would destroy my journal before I killed myself.
Some things are meant to be kept private, I guess.