||[Jul. 24th, 2010|05:54 am]
I think I may have found something out about myself, but I don't know if it's true or an excuse? I don't know what it could be, because my personality is all wound up and spun down by spools of medications, three (or rather two) sisters of fate with sharp orange fingernails. Part of me wants it to be true, because it would make a lot of things make sense. Why there have been times in my life where I've lied, lied through my teeth just so I wouldn't have to leave the house, leave the couch, stay awake. For months. And why there are times where I can't stop talking, stop moving, stop standing and jumping and biting my tongue when I smile through my eyelashes because don't be stupid, I know what I do. I think. Times where all of the words I say start with the same letter and I can never sleep. I start standing on chairs because I want to know what the room looks like from there, and it doesn't occur to me that I must look just outrageously entertaining. I just want to know what I would be like without any stimulants, without TV and phone and internet and meds. I want to know what that girl is like, or if that girl has changed since the medication and I was just too doped to notice. I don't know if I'm still here anymore, which is a rather scary idea if I really think about it. The idea that I could not be here.|
The mania, I don't know when it started. The first couple of times I can remember were around punk shows, weirdly enough, before or after. I think the dancing got me high. In both high school and college, my separate groups of friends noticed certain days that somehow ended up being called "fun Katie days," because those were the days that I didn't take my Adderall. And I thought that was it. But there were other days when I didn't take my Adderall, and I just didn't move all day. So there are the "fun Katie" days which are the days where I'm "on," as I've always called it, because that seemed the most accurate. It was like being turned on like a lightbulb, like a switch. Certain days or hours where everything I said was funny and clever. All of this I remember is pretty much from my adolescence. But if I remember back further, I remember turning up the volume on my static yard sale boombox in my room. I don't remember if anyone was home, they must not have been because of the noise. And I remember thrashing around my little green carpet in my little blue room, staring at myself through a maze of messy hair in the hazy window reflection. And it didn't feel fun per se. It felt desperate and necessary. I threw my head back and forth like I was trying to break my neck.
I feel like a failure every night I don't sleep. God, I wonder what I'm really like. I'd like to meet that girl.