"A right understanding that death is nothing to us makes the mortality of life enjoyable, not by adding to life an unlimited time, but by taking away the yearning after immortality."- Epicurus 
There is so much to know, to learn, to take in. Seconds pass and the present becomes the past. Its a slow and inevitable torture. I sit and I write, I read philosophy (or at least I try to!) I want to understand the world, and I want to understand myself. I don't think I can. 
I'm trapped in the fear of wanting to do but not wanting to be judged. 
There is so much I yearn for, and so little I do about it. 
What will I do when I read this back in several years time? Will I be sad, shake my head at how naive this eighteen year old is? Its half term, we have a week off school. I've sat in my house doing nothing all day. My existence is laughable. 
I don't think I have yearned for life after my death, should I? Life passes and its frightening but in a curious kind of way. Whats around the corner? Mostly its what was before the corner, the same dreary drivel. Life is a bore, and I feel a fool for writing that because in the prime of my age shouldn't I view the world with rose tinted glasses? Shouldn't everything be new and exciting and enjoyable? Shouldn't I be making the most out of life? 
So many questions and so few answers. 
I rang my counselor up last week and asked for another appointment, I haven't seen her in over half a year. Time has passed and our lives have continued and I feel different put I can't quite place my finger on it. How do I feel different? I think I've hardened and crumbled at the same time. I watched a film just now and the boy who is mentally unstable talks of how he is happy and sad at the same time, and what a curious notion that is for him. I feel it too. I wonder if everybody does? I'm laughing and smiling and joking, but I'm dying a little inside. Self destruction seems to be my forte. Its what I find comforting, have others comfort me in my time of despair. 

If I wasn't myself I think I'd have a tense disliking for me. As my mother says I feel everything very strongly, and I don't think this is a particularly desirable quality. 

I'm just an empty shell, comfort eating to fill the void. I'd like to be thin, I really would so that my outsides could mirror my insides. A dried up well, dusty and deserted. 
Self pitying will get me nowhere. I have a passion to write but the words are always tinged with such sadness and self loathing. I can't begin to imagine writing about something other than myself, and thats the irony of it all isn't it? We self loath but we couldn't imagine a life where we didn't, because in that life would exist the premise that in order to stop self loathing we would instead have to focus our attention to something else, something that isn't us. And when you think of it like that, self loathing isn't really self loathing at all, its a very complex, ingrained obsession with ourselves. 

Thin begins again.

Determination to be thin fills my bones. It has come again and I swear to you it will not leave until I am my perfect size. I'm sick of being the girl trapped in a prison watching everyone else on the outside enjoy life. I'm getting my act together- food wise (school work is still a no-go). I'm going to start eating a lot more fruit, excersizing at the gym and making sure I lose weight.

It has to be done. There is no alternative, no compromise, nothing but the scales and I.

Positively negative

Apparently our happiness can be defined as this: genetics constitutes for fifty percent, personality traits account for twenty percent and the other twenty percent stems from your thoughts. Therefore it follows that if you think positively, you are more likely to be a positive person, hence your happiness levels ought to be higher. 

I try to be positive. I do. I'm thinking already how pathetic and whiny that sounds writing it out like that. "I'm trying honestly" said the boy who cried wolf- that seems to be me at the moment. I say that I am being positive, but am I really? 

I feel that I am not in control though, of my thoughts I mean. There is a fog in my brain, that won't disperse and clear. It clouds my judgment on others, it cripples my ability to think straight. It leaves me with awful thoughts stipulated by OCD. I can't seem to escape death. It follows me in my dreams. It follows me even in my day-dreams. I lay next to my sister on my parents bed earlier and watched her sleep. She asked me so many questions- what if it doesn't get better? Are you going to university? Are you going off to America? Do you have to leave? But why? I tried to dismiss them, tried to make her sleep, and when sleep finally emerged I had two sickening thoughts. Firstly I thought of my suicide attempt, and how she would be lying here in bed alone if I had succeeded. Secondly, from out of nowhere, a voice said- you should kill the both of you. The thought was so startling I started to weep. Like I said I cannot evade the presence of death; it seems to cling to my soul like a bee to honey. 

I have a lot of OCD thought if that is what you want to call them. They always involve the well being of my family, particularly my mother and recently my sister. I do not care for my own welfare, therefore the thoughts do not seem to concern myself, but rather others. I have to check and double check and triple check that the gas is off, otherwise a voice creeps into my head telling me that my family will die in the night of gas poisoning if I do not check. And when my mother walks out of the house to go shopping, or drive somewhere a feeling ( of desperation? fear?) fills me, and I am duty bound to shout out "BE SAFE" before she leave for her journey. And sometimes I even stand at the door and wave her goodbye, focusing on the details of her face- certain that those moments will be the last time I see her. I have showers and turn of the water taps mid shower, imagining vivid thoughts of burglars invading my home and tying up my mother and sister, torturing them to death, and I listen and wait for it to happen...but of course it doesn't.

WHY DO I THINK THIS WAY? WHY? 

I know I'm not right. I have always known this. I have known this to be fact rather than opinion more so than I know of my identification. It has been etched into my brain- this niggling concern that I am not right, that I have the potential to be self destructive, or worse, inflict destruction on others- mainly since I became depressed, and since my major panic attack in October that was so so frightening. 

I just want my mum to come home and tell me it will all be alright. I want to hide under the covers and just not be me for a while. I want to bring the light back into my sisters eyes, with the same resolute desperation that I had when I watched it go out of mine. I want I want I want....