To the bunch of people that just followed me:
I hardly ever blog like this anymore. I only have my moments. I mostly wallow in my own self-pity. This may sound really dumb, but in the past two years, I’ve used tumblr as a means of growing up and getting to understand myself better through writing. It may seem like I whine for attention, but it’s actually just a place for me to put my thoughts, no matter how borderline-suicidal they get. Sometimes it helps to know that other people feel the same way. People who have been following me for over a year know exactly what I’m talking about. If you really want to get to know me, go through my posts tagged with “rambling,” they date back to over a year ago, and the very first one is basically my path to understanding the way I am. It’s really not that I want the entire world to know about my depression, but I want everyone to know that they’re not the only people with problems. Aside from the fact that I just use writing as a medium to feel better.
I mean, I guess I’m funny sometimes. But lately, I’ve had a lot of issues with myself and I just feel like crying all the time. And I post a lot of Doctor Who. But not in the creepy, obsessed fandom way. Just in an I-really-appreciate-this-show way. But that’s completely besides the point I’m trying to make. I actually don’t know what the point I’m trying to make. Maybe I’m trying to make multiple points. I guess one of them would be the fact that over a hundred people have unfollowed me in the past few months because I’ve gotten literally so depressed, it’s ridiculous and pathetic. I’m not even saying this in a “WAH PITY ME” tone. I’m just telling you the facts: sometimes, I’m really fucking sad. I know, now I’m making it seem like I am some depressed freak, or just a teenager with issues, which I am, you know. I’m seventeen, what do you expect? But I do have problems too… whatever though.
BUT TO BE COMPLETELY HONEST, I really do think I’m awesome. Actually, I know I am. I have this weird mentality about myself - like no one can bring me down. There’s no way I can say this without sounding like an arrogant asshole. And people do bring me down. Quite often actually. I mean lately I’ve been feeling like a horrible person and that my built up confidence from the past few years has been completely false and that people just have felt bad for me for all this time, which may or may not be true. My best friend told me a few weeks ago that trying to talk to me sometimes is like trying to befriend a toddler. NOT THAT I’m holding that against her, because she’s not mad at me anymore, or maybe she is, I don’t know, but that statement really made me realize that hey! I’m not as great as I think I am! But then again I know I am. Am I sounding crazy yet?
I don’t know.
I am great. But I’m also not that great at all. Some people who have followed me/known me for the past two years have stuck around all this time. They’ve seen me go up and down through recovery and therapy and all this writing. They’ve seen my artwork improve, my writing improve, and just me as a person improve. And maybe if you hopped on my train (yeah I know that’s lame) just now, you may not really get a full understanding of me as a person.
So I’ll say this:
Hi. My name is Julie. I’m seventeen, I’m from Connecticut. I go to New York City a lot. I’m planning on attending the School of Visual Arts there, for photography, and I want to take psychology courses on the side at a community college so I can have psych credits to go to grad school for art therapy. I have a sister who is 11 years older than me, and a brother who is 13 years older than me. They both live in New York City. If it wasn’t for them, I probably wouldn’t be as in love with the place as I am now. I love the trains, I love the rush of people, I love shopping there, I love the parks. I live about two hours away.
Besides all that, I’m a junior in high school, and I have a 2.18 GPA because I rarely do my homework. I didn’t start seriously caring about school until this year, but I still have a C-average. But I’m getting by. I failed second semester earth science in my freshman year, for no reason at all. It was the easiest class I was taking. But I failed it. Instead of retaking it, I attended two summers of the SVA pre-college program for darkroom and color photography. Next summer, I’m going back for the third (well, really fourth because I did a Saturday program too) time for digital photography.
As you can probably tell, I really like photography. Not in the douchey, “I have a Nikon D3100, look at me with my big lens!” kind of way, but in the way where I actually take the time to learn about F/stop and shutter speed and I appreciate actual art rather than 13-year-olds who take pictures of their iPod touches with Bring Me The Horizon on the screen. You know exactly what I’m talking about. And if you don’t, then wow, how could you miss stuff like that on this website?
Okay, besides all that, I live with my parents. My dad is awesome, and my mom is okay, but I don’t like her most of the time, but we get along. She has OCD, although she’s never been diagnosed. If you snoop through my blog, you’ll see plenty of posts about that. Just search “mother,” I’m sure you’ll find something.
I have a job at a diner in my town called AC Petersen Farms, and it’s not fine dining or anything, but it’s pretty good. It’s expensive though, but it’s the best ice cream around. I like the job, it makes my feet hurt but it’s ridiculously easier than I expected it to be. The only reason I got the job there was because my best friend, Brittnie works there. If it wasn’t for her I wouldn’t have over $200 in a peanut butter jar.
Want to know the reason why I have that much money in there and not in my wallet? Because my boyfriend lives six hours away from me, in upstate New York and I want to save up money so he could come here, or maybe even I could go there but my parents don’t want me doing that. I met him on here, which sounds crazy, but isn’t like, one in five relationships started on the internet? I’m pretty sure that’s right. Or maybe that’s just what everyone says, but it seems accurate enough. I’ve only met up with him twice, and they were two of the best days of my life. I’m so happy to have him. Distance is really, really hard and it makes us both irritable as fuck, but we deal. I really love him. When you hear all that stuff about “first loves,” you don’t realize how true they are until you actually experience it. I was scared of telling anyone I was in love with them because I didn’t want to accidentally say it and then not mean it, but I really mean it with him. He is just the core of my life, which maybe sounds like some cheesy bullshit, but it’s true. It took me six months to tell my parents about him, because he’s three and a half years older than me, but they didn’t yell at me or get upset about it at all. But they won’t help much. But that’s that. I really think he’s lovely.
Another thing I could tell you about my life is the process I went through to my so called “recovery” but I’ve made plenty of posts about that! I actually took one of my long posts on here and edited it a bit and turned it into my college essay. Basically, I never slept, I stayed awake for a long time and just hated on myself until I cried myself to sleep, I went to school feeling drunk off of no sleep, didn’t pay attention. Then I started eating breakfast and hanging out with people that were actually happy and didn’t have mental issues! And I started to feel okay! And then I realized that recovery isn’t something you have to do on your own, despite the fact that for the past two years before that, I had frequently asked my parents for therapy, and it was either “You don’t need it,” or “We’ll see what we can do,” but I come from a family of mega-procrastinators, so of course, nothing got done. Well, I told my guidance counselor about how terrible I was feeling, then she got a counselor for me, I met with her once a week for almost three months maybe, then she referred me to a psychologists, I did an evaluation, I was “diagnosed” with dysthymia, and I started going to real therapy. I still go to it, but I think I want to stop it soon. But I don’t know. I keep going back and forth.
I used to have a lot of terrible social anxiety, not with friends or school or anything, but with being in public. I couldn’t go to the mall or grocery store without feeling like everyone was watching me. It was terrible. That was a year ago. Now, I just strut around like I own the fucking place. The first time I went to my summer program, I didn’t talk to anyone until the last day, and it was three weeks long. Then the second summer, I kind of made friends, but again we didn’t really fully bond until the end. I am really bad with making new friends in person. I am hoping that by this summer, I can make friends right from the start.
Remember when I said that Brittnie is my best friend? I have another best friend too, her name is Danielle. I’ve known her since third grade and I’ve never connected with anyone like I do with her. In 8th grade, we would skip SSR (sustained silent reading) and hang out in the bathrooms. Then she stopped going to high school after freshman year, and we faded a bit, but I’d say we’re still best friends, at least that’s what I consider her. She gets annoyed with me because I barely ever initiate anything, and the thing is, I don’t know how to. I’ve never known. She’s always the one to call me. I’m a horrible friend, really. I had another best friend, Kyle, and I’ve never had a friend like him, but I said a very mean thing to him, and he had a lot of built up anger towards me, and he told me we weren’t friends anymore. And I cried. I don’t know if he knows I cried, but I know he doesn’t care. He does drugs and really it seems like we don’t have much in common anymore. So I guess it’s okay. I miss him, but life goes on, right?
I see everything as a metaphor, which may seem cliche as hell, but it’s true. I dyed my hair bright red in June, going against everything my mother wanted, I even made her cry because she hates change, but she got used to it. I saw that as a metaphor, for my own recovery, for “breaking out” or whatever. It made me feel so much more confident. I’m naturally really blonde, but I really dyed my hair a bright-ass Raggedy Anne red. I was so proud of myself. It’s mostly faded now, and I want to redye it again soon because maybe it will be like some sort of revival for me. I’ve just been lazy. I must have gone through over ten boxes of hair dye this summer. I could get it professionally done, but red fades fast.
I don’t really have as many body issues as I used to. I still have my moments, and I really don’t like my thighs, just like most girls, but I don’t look at the mirror and cry. I mean, okay, I really don’t like my face. I like some parts about it, but for the most part, I hate its structure, and if you’ve seen me at all you know that my nose is not a pleasurable thing to look at. I hate it so much. It’s what I get made fun of for the most, even by people who know how uncomfortable it makes me. But when it comes to my body, I mean, my legs and belly are kind of fat, but they’re not terrible. I have learned that wearing flattering clothing really makes you feel a lot better about yourself. Some people don’t believe it, but it’s 100% true. I used to only wear band shirts and jeans, but now as long as it’s warm, I’m always wearing skirts and dresses. Actually, there is one thing that I’m ashamed of, and that’s the scars all over my thighs. They’re pretty bad. I guess they’re not terrible. But they’re there. And I’m scared that they won’t ever go away. But I deal, you know? Stuff comes with being sad. I’m not saying that’s an excuse for what I did, but I don’t want to wear shorts and expect people to jump at me asking why my legs are so scratched up. I did it, it’s there. I can’t really explain that to people who don’t know my background. It’s not okay. Self injury isn’t okay, and I know that. But yeah. My boyfriend really made me love my body.
I guess that’s all I can say. If you’re going to complain to me about how terribly long and badly-written this was, fuck you. My point to be taken from this, my final, actual point is: if you don’t like any of this, don’t bother following me. Don’t bother leaving nasty messages to me telling me how whiney and attention-whorey I am. Because it doesn’t make a difference to me. I am who I am, and sometimes people bring me down, but I will always, always, ALWAYS get back on my motherfucking feet to give a big fuck you to everyone who thought I’d be nothing. I believe people when they tell me I’m going to make a difference in the world. I know I have a fucking story to tell. And guess what? You don’t have to listen if you don’t want to. But you might want to.