October 21st, 2001

XBox Me

(no subject)

Going through my postcards, sorting out who gets which when, and suddenly coming across one and automatically thinking "I'll send that one to Daddy." But I can't. I can't. He'll never know I walked down the same streets he did when he was about my age, saw the same sights, never know how much I admired him, how much I missed him when he had to go away, how much I wanted him to stay home

I almost wish I couls just scan in these entries from my journal - my handwriting says much about my emotional state. It's been two and a half years - won't it ever get better? Or will I always be taken off-guard by little things, that'll send me into fits of tears? A postcard, for God's sake.

A postcard.
XBox Me

(no subject)

There are few things worse than feeling unwanted and unloved. I think that's my big problem here - nobody really cares one way or the other about me here. All the people who love me are on the other side of the ocean.

I'm reminded of something I heard a psychologist say once, regarding the idea of racial tolerance: "Tolerate means put up with. Nobody wants to be tolerated. We want to be loved, accepted, respected, cared for." I'm tolerated here. Beyond that, not so much.

Even right now - I'm listening to my CD player and writing in here on my bed in my room while Clarissa does something on her bed (I'm not sure what exactly) with the door closed and everyone else in the other room. Do I end up isolating myself because I feel unwanted by them, or do they not want me because I isolate myself? The chicken or egg question for loneliness, I guess.

Earlier in the evening, I got to talk to Bret while this place was completely nuts - somebody in every single room, talking and going on and such. The noise and everything wwas getting to me - I started tensing up like mad, and I did start having a bit of trouble breathing. I ended up clinging to Bret's voice as best as I could, and as long as I could focus on that voice, I was fine - I was ok. I was better than ok, even. His voice was a lifeline of friendship and love and care and basically everything that's missing from this place. Slow connections are being made, but they're tenuous. I look down on my self, and so feel everyone else does as well. I'm getting confused as to my place in the world, in this school, in this flat, even. I can't see myself beyond college. I'm not sure why not. I just don't know what good I can do. I don't even know what I'm good at, if I am good at anything. I don't know of any true strength I may have. When I was younger, I was "the smart one." Everyone was sure I'd go on to college. Nobody ever knew what I would *do* there, but they were all sure I'd go. My intelligence was my touchstone, my identity.

That's since been shot straight to hell.

Going to a school of people infinetely more intelligent (or, at the very least, more persuasive) than I killed that. Which was probably why it took me off-guard so much when my tutorial teacher told me I "exude intelligence" onstage. It was the first time in years anyone has made any kind of mention of my intelligence.

I keep feeling like a fraud here. I'm not really talented - I just memorize lines quickly. I guess the "proof", as such, will come in seeing what kind of part I end up with. They have to cast us all - but at least one of the plays has several parts that are essentially moving scenery. Background noise, if you will.

Basically, my role in real life.