I don’t know what’s going on with me.
I’d like to think I’m crazy, just so I have a solid answer. I certainly feel like I’m completely insane sometimes, but I know it’s just a publicity stunt. Publicity stunt? Who’s my audience? I am. Liz, that doesn’t make sense. Oh, but it does, in my own mind. I feel like my life is a movie or a book at times. So, I do weird things, like lying on my floor, or making a bed out of my bathtub.
Ahh. There you are. You’re calling me. Why am I ignoring it? I don’t know. Okay, that’s a lie. I do know. I don’t want to talk to you. I am not ready to talk to you. I don’t know how to explain it this time. And, if I tried, things would blow up again. You’d get worried, and upset. That’s not what I aim to do. I don’t mean to upset you. You don’t deserve it. It’s not you, it’s me.
Sorry about the vagueness there.
Nothing will get done about me, though. I’ll go to a couple therapy sessions, think I’m fine, then go on about my merry life. Until one day, maybe when I’m 16 and a half, I’ll do this all over again, cry with my mom, and be told that I need help. How will that cure anything? .. how will anything help me?
Do I even need help? Do I even have a real problem? I don’t know. Maybe this is all part of adolescence. Maybe this is my way of dealing with things, like Mary said. If that’s the case, it’s a bit of a relief. It means that what I’m going through is normal. In a way. Maybe.
I’m sorry. I know you don’t like it when I don’t talk to you about things, and you have to find out by other means. I’m just trying desperately to find a release for all this. I think asking you to step into my shoes is a bit of a stretch when you don’t know even know what’s going on in my shoes, but please don’t be mad. Try to understand me.
Well, I’m done here.