06-03-02 @ 12:12 pm EDT

ORIGINAL POSTING DATE: 05-29-02 @ 3:02 am EDT

(May still be edited. Typos may be present.)

This is sort of a personal entry, things about myself that I'm just listing. I won't say why. I'm not sure if I'll have the guts to use this entry for the purpose it's intended, but that's not the point right now.

So...you don't have to read this unless you really want to. :) But be warned. I get very personal in this.

* I'm afraid of needles. HORRIFIED of them. I pass out whenever I see them piercing skin...especially my own...ugh.

* I'm not an especially queasy person, yet it seems when I see blood coming from somebody near me, I get woozy. Usually not my own blood though.

Pictures of bleeding people, no matter how gory, usually don't really affect me. Only one made me have to put my hand to my head, and it was at one of those sites that show pictures of dead and injured people. This guy's face...it was like completely blown up, exploded outward, except for his eyes and tongue...even now I still sit and wonder how that happened (did he put firecrackers up his nose??), how he was still alive. I think it's the fact that his eyes seemed intact that made it most sickening...but anyway.

* When sufficiently queasy I tend to just pass out. I...have done that more times than I like to admit. :/ It's rather embarrassing.

* I'm terrified of water. I'm okay walking in it. But if I'm ever in a position where my head might have to go UNDER the surface, I REALLY freak out. I thought maybe it was just because I can't swim (I really wish I could)...but no...even in a tub, or in a bowl of standing water, I tried to submerge my face, and merely the feel of the water against my nose, even if I was plugging it, made me start to panic. So I couldn't do it. It's the feel of the water pressing around my face that makes me want to suck in a breath, and I lose it.

An old nightmare of mine concerned this fear: The Face On The Hill There is a character, likewise, in some of my stories who was nearly drowned as a child...he's not afraid of the water, but drawn to it, the opposite of me...I won't say more about that matter unless asked.

* I'm terrified of heights. I can't even climb a ladder without being unable to get down, like a cat stuck up a tree. Can't think of what that might have to do with anything, but it's still a bad phobia.

* I HATE ants. I think I can trace this phobia, unlike the others. I used to sleep with pop next to my bed. I woke up one morning and took a drink, then looked in the cup to see it swarming with ants. I SCREAMED! I can't remember if I feared ants before then, but I certainly fear them now!

Spiders? I really don't mind them, unless they're on my bed or crawling on me. Then of course, it's an instinctive thing to brush them off. The rest of the time I leave them alone. I think they're kind of cute, if they leave ME alone.

Other bugs like millipedes and woodlice I hate just because they're ugly. Did you know woodlice carry their babies on their bellies? I...found that out firsthand once. Blech.

* The first time I was left alone, at around age nine to eleven, I think, I freaked out and cried, cried, cried. Stupid, because I had actually ASKED to be left alone, and my mom went to bingo. I assured her I would be fine. Then as soon as she left, I just bawled! When Dad came home everything was okay, but that was really stupid...

I'm okay with being alone now, but not for a lot, and not for a very long time. I hate being separated from either of my parents for long. I get mad at them when they're gone often, and of course they get mad back. I discovered the reason why I sleep during the day and am up at the computer all night. Because...everyone but me is GONE during the day! Sure, I could use the computer then, but I would be totally ALONE. I HATE that feeling, for so long. So I sleep then, so I don't have to feel it...strange.

* I'm obsessive-compulsive. When my parents are gone a long time I have visions of them lying dead and bloody in the ditch. I always assume the worst has happened or will happen. Before I entered high school, I actually had fears that I would end up raped just by walking down the hallway! (We live in a low-crime area, only two murders here that I know of.) My compulsions run the gamut--hoarding is worst, but there's also cleanliness (I HATE my hands feeling sticky or dirty), pickiness (my hair has to be done just right), ordering/sorting rituals (everything in its place, even if the place is a mess), some counting rituals, pure obsessions, etc. etc. etc. I would say I have the disorder moderately. I have been diagnosed with this by a psychologist.

* I'm avoidant. Terrified of interacting with people lest I do the wrong thing or look incredibly stupid. I'm probably body dysmorphic since I can never look good enough. (Shorten my hair and I will look like a boy. I'm serious.) And a lot of the time I think I'm borderline. I see people as totally good or totally bad, usually not in between. I completely open myself up to and depend upon somebody's support, then if they can't deliver, I shut them out totally, and hate them forever. (Well, not hate them, but dislike them, and can't be near them.) Reading the rest of this journal, you can see this recurring pattern. No matter how well somebody treats me, and how well I treat them, I always assume they're going to hate me or be mad at me, even if there's no reason. One reason why I'm afraid to read my e-mail. I ALWAYS assume the person who wrote it hates me or finds me stupid.

Hmmmmm, the fan over my head is really rattling and I'm having visions of it dropping and cutting off my head!! o_o;;; I'm not sure how to turn it down though...!!

Okay...I'm sorry...I tried to take it but it was freaking me out too much. Turned down the fan. Moving on.

I haven't been diagnosed as avoidant or borderline, though I know I'm the former, and often suspect the latter.

* I have vivid dreams a lot of the time, and pretty good recall (unless I don't write them down, then only partial recall), but next-to-no lucid abilities. I've tried. Never worked. :( Even the very rare times when I know I'm dreaming I can't seem to control the course of the dream. Completely powerless.

* The recurring sweet smell in my early dreams. I've smelled formaldehyde before. We had to dissect cats in college, and it was a sickening smell, especially as the cats got older (we had to keep reusing them)...but that was not the smell from my dreams. Someone likewise suggested it could be a memory of the smell of lilies from a funeral, but I remember attending only one funeral (my grandpa), and my only memory of that is of sitting in the car afterward, watching the rain hit the windows. I remember no casket, no body, no lilies, no smell. The smell in my dream appears to have come from nowhere, yet in my dream I know what it is.

Like I said, it consists of me entering a children's playroom...very pleasant and sunny, full of stuffed toys. (I love stuffed toys as opposed to dolls...hate dolls. I empathize more with animals.) In this room, there's a doorway leading to another room, which is set into the ground a bit, so I have to go down a few steps. It's a playroom also, like stepping into a walk-in closet only then it becomes a room, with windows and all. I see a toychest to the side. It's darker in here, like there are drapes over the windows. And here is where the scent hits me. The room looks appealing, but the scent overpowers me and I back out with dread. I'm especially afraid of the toychest. I have other old dreams of opening toychests and finding everything inside old and mildewed and such. That could very well be a real memory, as I had a toychest that was stuck in a flooded basement and the stuff in it got all icky, but the scent...no idea where it came from. In the dream I know it's the smell of death, that's all I'm certain of.

* Already mentioned elsewhere my other themes, the sun growing dim as the wind picks up... Darkness Falling (just a sample of many) (I've included this dream in two of my stories, one of them from the viewpoint of the character mentioned above, who nearly drowned.)

Tunnels and crypts and passageways that lead on to nowhere... The Crypt Tunnels

Beautiful things that suddenly turn ugly and vicious... The Mad Horse & The Bear, The Fallout & The Monstrous Pet

For some reason I've twice dreamed of the sky freezing over!!--The Ice-Top Sky, The Ice-Top Sky Redux I also had a period when I dreamed at least twice of having difficulty breathing, something which has yet to happen again... Hard Breathing & The Sidewalk Fountain, From Flesh To Stone

People watching me--just watching me, and scaring me badly... High School Revenge & People--Watching Me!

Weird sky phenomena, and sunsets... Multi-Moons & Shooting Stars, Castle In The Clouds & Theater Hopping, Square Clouds & Purple Horses (examples)

Gory images pop up every so often... The Family Slaughter, The Death Buses, Rice Storm & The Body On The Porch

Other themes are me forgetting a pet I had and buying a new one, replacing it, then finding the old pet wandering around, forgotten! And I always feel so guilty!

And abandonment... Dinosaur World & Alone In The Dark

Water appears in my dreams a lot also, in different aspects; sometimes I fear it, sometimes I welcome it. In one rare dream I found my room flooded but it was so peaceful, my bed floated above the water and it was so warm and welcoming...

I know I'm forgetting some themes. Oh. Fires popping up suddenly, and me unable to put them all out in time! Dialing phone numbers for an emergency, yet fumbling on the numbers (this is common, as you can't read the same thing twice in a dream). Having to go to the bathroom only finding that the only available toilets are in PUBLIC. (LITERALLY in public!) Driving a car, only to realize I can't drive, and having to jump out the window. Typical anxiety dreams.

There's also another theme I don't feel comfortable sharing in a public journal, though I could mention it privately...

Enough with those for now though...

* I write mostly about male characters. I just can't empathize with my female characters. Those female characters of mine that I DO like tend to be more masculine--they're very self-confident and take-charge. The latest example is the character Charmian from my serial; she's pretty much a tomboy. Most of my female characters are just wimps and I can't stand them, so I write about guys.

And I put my characters through an INCREDIBLE amount of torture and pain. They are ALWAYS getting the crap beaten out of them. Shot, stabbed, hit, kicked, tortured (literally), brainwashed, hospitalized, traumatized, put near death...all of it. What's seen in my writing is actually very little of what I make them go through. It's like I'm some kind of sadist.

Public examples...

Something landed in the snow before her--her vision was sideways as she hadn't lifted her head all the way--and with a hiss, she felt the same thing whip across her cheek, knocking her head back. She cried out and collapsed in the snow. Instantly she was being bombarded with a series of slashes and whips, feeling them lay open her clothing, cut and bruise her skin. She held up her arms to shield her head, getting up and running blindly. Whatever it was followed her, and she tripped and fell again....

"Wh-why are you--d-doing this--?" she gasped, breath growing short as the demon's grip grew tighter.

The Ocryx's eyes glittered and her voice hissed like water on hot rocks. Because it is my duty!

With this, she lifted Charmian high, hefting her to the side--Charmian barely had time to scrabble at her arm, unable to get a good grip--before hurling her out over the cliff. Charmian yelled as she sailed through the air, and for a moment almost expected X'aaru's rainbow--or moonbow--or Pakwa, or Mani, or something--to appear, and stop her fall before--

Her head slammed into the slope. She somersaulted backwards and started rolling and tumbling, coming to an abrupt stop only when her coat snagged on a bush, leaving her upper half dangling perilously over an overhang. At first she felt only a stinging, but then it turned into a full-fledged throb; with a weak groan she slowly reached up, to try to grab onto the shrub that had probably saved her life.

And she fell.

Down through snow, through rock, through pine boughs, her body slammed into every hard and unwelcoming surface there was. By the time she stopped again she had no idea how close to the ground she might be, though she could dimly see the underside of the arch looming above her; she assumed she must have fallen halfway, at least. The bottom was still far below. But the rock didn't look normal. It kept sparking and turning staticky before clearing again, like bad TV reception. She blinked a few times, but the sight didn't improve any. She started to realize it was her own vision that was fading.

Something behind her head felt sticky and warm. She stared upwards at a few pale drifting shapes that wafted into view, peering down at her. Charmian painfully reached up one hand--her fingers were red--and held it out toward the spirits that hovered far above, looking down....

--"Manitou Island"

At the last minute she saw his fist hurtling toward her face. A shock slammed through her jaw and her limbs crumpled. Her vision grew dim and she sank downwards, nearly falling, but managing to stop herself with her free hand. He yanked upward on her other arm and she winced at the searing feeling that spread through her shoulder. The blow had left her weakened and dazed; he caught her before she could fall again, and held her up, grinning at her with narrowed eyes....

Maftet shuddered with revulsion. Her response was to bite his ear, her teeth sinking into the cartilage and refusing to let go. He shrieked again, flailing and trying to pull his head away. It took him several moments before he could do so and she felt him let go of her arm, clutching at his wounded ear, blood streaming from between his fingers. He continued screaming, enraged beyond belief. Blinking away her shock, she started to back away, only to see his features contort as he came at her, his fist crashing into her face.

Something in her jaw popped and a raw tendril of agony tore through it as it disconnected from her skull. The pain was so exquisite that she couldn't even scream, but only gasped brokenly as she fell. Her head cracked against the ground and within seconds he was over her, his fists raining blows down upon her body, one or two striking her face, the rest pummeling her chest and ribs and stomach. She spat blood, feeling one of her ribs crack.

"STUPID--NETERI--BITCH!!" he screamed, one blow to her stomach causing her to gag and nearly lose control, choking on her own bile as it rose upward into her throat. She struggled for breath and felt him grab her arms and hold them down. She heard something tearing, and surging awake with panic, tried to push herself up.

Something slammed into her chest, driving her back down with a sharp expulsion of breath. Stars danced in front of her eyes. She bit back a whimper of pain and blinked away a stream of blood to see those strange, familiar yellow eyes staring down at her, burning with hatred. The voice grated in her ears, just as familiar, only now made more...human?...

--"Apophis's Day On Earth" (the actual scene in my head is a lot more violent than that...)

In a movement so quick Damien didn't even have time to realize what had happened, Lucifer snarled and lunged forward, his other hand balling into a fist and striking Damien in the face. Damien collapsed immediately, blood streaming from his mouth; as he coughed and sputtered with confusion Lucifer dragged him back to his feet. He still hadn't let go of his son's hand, and now Damien could feel his fingers digging into the skin of his palm. He tried to jerk away, too late; Lucifer's fist met him again and he went down a second time, landing face first in the dirt....

Even as he was trying to decide he could tell the two had moved considerably closer. Damien had finally regained his feet but not his hand; he was trying desperately to pull free, yet Lucifer's grip was like that of a boa constrictor. His father's eyes were flashing wildly as he swung at him repeatedly. Each time Damien tried to duck or dodge the blow; but a good number of them were making contact. Father Damien flinched each time he heard Lucifer's fist meet his nephew. Damien wasn't trying to fight back. After all his shows of belligerence, the priest wondered why he chose now to keep his hands and his temper to himself.

Yet even as he thought it he knew why. Lucifer was still Damien's father. No matter what Damien didn't want to hit him--not if he didn't have to. And even though he certainly had to now, he was still refusing to fight back.

"Dad--" he managed to get out, before Lucifer struck him in the face again. He coughed and spat blood; Father Damien winced and wavered nearby. Damien shook his head and tried to speak again, his eyes wide and pleading. "Dad, it's me!"

A low blow to the stomach. Damien gasped and doubled over with pain. Lucifer finally let go of his hand and struck him in the chest with his elbow, sending him tumbling over the edge of the ridge....

Damien rolled and tumbled all the way down the drop, striking the sand and rocks repeatedly. By the time he hit the bottom he was covered from head to foot in bruises, scratches, and sand. For a moment he couldn't move. Then he lifted his head dazedly, spitting out sand and attempting to get up, with a groan.

Lucifer was at the edge of the ridge before Father Damien could stop him. He pushed himself off and slid down, propelling himself with his hands....

The whole time the scene back in the field was taking place, Damien had been taking the beating of his life. Over and over Lucifer struck him in the face, the head, the chest and ribs; finally, in self-defense, Damien swung out and by sheer luck hit him in the jaw, just as he had Danser. His father sputtered and backed away with surprise. He touched his broken lip and peered at the blood, then up at his son--and then he was at him again, screaming mad, his hands wrapped around Damien's throat, jerking him back and forth, strangling the life out of him.

"Da--aaghh--" Damien forced out, trying desperately to pry Lucifer's fingers away from his neck. Lucifer snarled, his grip growing tighter.

"A sacrifice," he snarled down at him; Damien could barely see him anymore, his vision was going dim. "You were to be a sacrifice. An honor! And you throw it away!"

His senses were fading now. He dropped to his knees, his attempts to break loose growing weaker. He could feel his head pounding but it didn't matter anymore. He let out a choked noise, trying to tell this maniac he was his son, he loved and wanted to help him, why was he doing this? Yet Lucifer's eyes stayed as hard and unrecognizable as ever, his lip curled up like that of a rabid dog. Damien could feel his thumbs digging into the sides of his neck, drowsiness tugging at his eyelids....

--"Lucifer"

Suddenly the ground gave way. With a cry Damien found himself first tumbling, then falling--

And then tumbling again. He struck something hard, jarring his shoulder, and was sent sprawling down another slope. It seemed like it would never end! He tried several times to grab onto something but there was nothing to grab onto anymore--just the hard, slippery embankment which he was rolling down. With a sudden sharp blow, he stopped, and lay there motionless as if dead.

Indeed that was how he felt for a few moments. When he finally managed to convince himself that the dead couldn't hurt so much, he lifted his head with a groan. The first thought that came into his mind was if anything was broken. He checked himself over, feeling his arms and legs; all of his bones were sound though he was badly scraped and bruised all over. The second thought was, what had happened? And where was he?

He dragged himself painfully to his feet and looked around, shaking in the wind and wet....

--"D Is For Damien" (Poor Dami. That's actually a tame scene there; throughout the course of the story he's beaten, shot, etc.!)

"LET--GO!" Jenner/the goat-monster screamed, its own voice distorted past recognition.

Kincaid didn't let go. His fingers were frozen. The gun slowly turned to aim his way, waving at his face; he didn't notice, he was too preoccupied with what was going on. The gun wasn't even a gun anymore, it was a knife, a long-handled ivory knife; the blade was covered with blood, and he knew without looking, so was his leg; blood was all over the face of the thing in front of him, the thing that had been a man but wasn't a man any longer--

BANG! Psyche jumped. Kincaid's mouth opened but nothing came out. He let go his hold on the gun and staggered back, a blossom of red growing over his left shoulder. No, no, no! Psyche screamed in her head, only dimly aware of a strange crashing, tumbling sound coming from behind her. Don't back up, don't back up, he'll get you--!

--"Minot" (the main character in this suffers routine flashbacks of being stabbed in the leg so often that it damaged the muscle tissue, resulting in a permanent limp)

Set's fingers formed a claw and he lashed out, gouging at Horus's right eye. Horus shrieked as he felt the ripping of nerves, the warm gush of blood down his face, his vision going. His hand tightened on the lance with the agony and blindly he thrust it forward.

The golden tip connected with Set's armor, sinking into it and through him as surely as any sword. A blue light danced along the shaft. A look of astonishment crossed Set's face; Horus yanked the lance free and Set fell to his knees, his sword clattering to the ground, clasping his hands to his chest. He swayed before collapsing, a harsh rattle sounding in his throat.

Everyone held their breath. Horus dropped his lance and clutched at his wounded eye with a moan. He didn't collapse as Set had, instead staggering sideways and sinking to the ground....

--"Horus"

This goes without mentioning the unwritten stuff from "The Trench Rats," "Magic City," etc....it gets just about as violent. Most of it aimed at male characters. (Charmian and Maftet above are the exceptions.)

There is another violent angle in a lot of my stories, including ones posted here, that I don't feel comfortable stating publicly, but again, I could talk about it privately...or you can see the theme recurring in these pieces...

Escape
Apophis's Day On Earth
The First Priestess Of Upuat
Random Story
A Crack Of Light
Random Scene 3
The Trench Rats: Recurring Characters (the information about Silver Rat; that description is actually very toned down, compared to what really happens in the story (unwritten))

(Don't have to read any of them, just pointing out the recurring theme.)

None of this even begins to mention the psychological crap I put my characters through...

Moving on though!

* I don't feel grown up. My MIND feels adult, but I don't feel like an adult EMOTIONALLY. It's like I have the knowledge of a twenty-five year old, but not the emotional stability. For some reason I focus on the age eleven. I was last TRULY happy around age twelve or thirteen, but I always focus on age eleven as when I "stopped" growing up. Don't know why. Eleven was actually when I STARTED writing seriously.

On a message board where I no longer post (they flamed me off), I once mentioned how I've never had sex and I felt uncomfortable even talking about it. Still true. The others were amazed and made a big deal of pointing out how abnormal I am--"Perhaps you're happy with not having sex, but you have to admit this fear of it isn't normal!" (Yes, true, but so what? I didn't really mind that so much, but they just kept HARPING on how WEIRD I was, that it pissed me off.) One of them even tried to instruct me on how to masturbate. Of course I said NO THANKS! and refused to read her post. Again, they told me, "You're old enough. Why do you feel guilty? You're an adult, you can do it if you want! Screw what others think!"

They didn't seem to understand, that I DIDN'T want.

Back then I didn't know why. Now I think I do.

I don't "want" because I DON'T FEEL OLD ENOUGH TO. I know I AM, physically, but MENTALLY I don't feel mature enough. Back then I thought it was merely because I didn't want others' perceptions of me to change so much--"OMG, Tehuti had sex! GASP! The whore!" Well, yes, I do feel that way...but I feel that way, even now, at age twenty-five, because...I don't feel old enough to do it. I feel like a little kid. I even act like one...I have toys...I pretend I'm my characters all the time...I even sit Indian-style, rather than like an adult. I don't wear sophisticated clothes or anything; I'm like a KID in an adult body, with adult knowledge, but a kid's emotions. So of COURSE the guilt is there! I can't "just screw what everyone else thinks," when it's what *I* think that matters the most.

I DO know that those who know me would be shocked if they found out I was being intimate with anybody. But I would be the most shocked of all. THAT'S what makes me feel guilty. Of course, there is also just fear, lack of opportunity, distrust, and no real desire to, so as it stands, I doubt I'll ever be with anybody...

* As I mentioned briefly above, I pretend to be my characters a lot. A LOT. Even when I don't want to, I just slip into their minds, think like them, hear their thoughts. It's my way of getting by, since I can't stand my own thoughts. For example, when I'm upset, I may start to think like one of my characters when they're upset, even if I don't want to, and that might make me cry a little less since my characters are stronger than I am. It's like I visualize myself as them, put myself in their shoes. Willingly and unwillingly. I can't stay in my own mind for long.

* Oh yes. Myself. I can't write about myself. I used to include myself in my fiction but I loathe reading those stories now and now, I no longer appear in them, at least directly. (My characters all reflect different bits of me, yes, but not as a whole.) I CANNOT stand reading about myself in fiction. It disgusts me, literally. Ugh.

* I have next-to-no patience or anger control. I have about a three-minute threshold of trying and failing, and then I start to get VERY MAD. All reason flies out the window. I have literally broken things when I can't get them to work right (I crushed a clock that stopped working, and I threw my book at the wall a lot when I couldn't figure out algebra), and I also turn toward self-injury--tearing my hair out in hunks, clawing my face, punching/slapping my legs, slamming my hands against hard surfaces, etc. That doesn't include my "ritualistic" self-injury, which so far just includes me hitting myself repeatedly until I bruise, and maintaining the bruise as long as I can. That latter one isn't usually caused by anger, at least not solely. I often do it when I'm bored. Anyway, I always feel ashamed of my angry reactions afterward, yet can't seem to control them. It's like my patience and reason just completely dissolve. :( Could that have anything to do with ADD? I'm diagnosed as slightly attention-deficit (non-hyperactive)...

* I HATE children. I cannot stand them. They STARE at me. I don't want to hold nor have babies. At this point in time, I wouldn't mind being completely fixed so I had no chance of having any. (I know that that could change, but so far it hasn't, and I'm already twenty-five so I don't have long to change my mind!) I have had dreams that they stand there and stare at me and they're like nightmares. It happened in real life once and left me sobbing. I don't like people my own age either, as I know that they're more successful than I am; they just remind me what a loser I am, how I've accomplished nothing. I hate teenagers (I'm talking about in general!--if you're a kid or a twenty five year old or a teenager, please don't take offense, I'm talking mainly about the ones I knew personally), which I often ironically identify with (since I feel I haven't grown up), as they always seemed vain and self-absorbed and shallow when I was in school. I'm most comfortable with those OLDER than me, in a position of authority even. I like OTHERS taking charge, and I still call people older than me by "Mr." or "Mrs." For some reason I really respect police, though I've had no interaction with them. (My brother got all that, mwa-ha-ha.) A lot of my favorite characters are police. I watch Law & Order religiously, even.

* Ritual abuse is a big interest of mine. For whatever reason. I won't go into that deeper publicly, only privately. It's simply too controversial a subject for me to clarify all my views on it in here...

* I'm also interested in fantasy, paranormal, supernatural, and the occult. Big recurring themes in my writing.

* When little, I used to be terrified of weird swirly creepy music (it sounds like "mwamwamwamwam"...you'd have to hear it), and of people staring at me with wide angry eyes, glaring actually, and of colored lights (which is dumb, since my brother and I bought some!), and of the shadow of a hand, fingers outspread, on the wall. I have no idea why, but these things really freaked me out back then. So did mirrors, but that was because of an episode of Amazing Stories that I saw. It took me years to overcome that fear, and I'm still a little scared of looking at myself in a mirror in the dark. (So yes, "Bloody Mary" was not a favorite of mine!)

* I get headaches daily. Just very mild tension headaches, probably anxiety related; I take sinus pills to get rid of them, which I think is psychosomatic, but it means I have to take sinus pills daily. And they always dope me.

* You can see, I open up far too easily, yet trust no one completely. A very difficult and frustrating combination. Can't get into it in too much detail right now just because I'm tired!

ADDED 5/31: * I hate my looks. All of them except my hands. (And what do HANDS matter?) My hair, face, arms, legs, body, all of it--UGH. I'm overweight, which is my own fault, and I'm too lazy to do anything about it. I have a lot of obsessions and compulsions about my hair especially and if it's not put in JUST PERFECT, I throw fits--literally. (And since I can't put it in right myself, this has led to lots of squabbles between my mom and me.) One would probably think I'm vain about my hair with how much I obsess over it--yet I think it's ugly. It's so frizzy and SICKENING! I always wear it in a ponytail publicly because I can't stand the feel of my hair brushing against my face...also because IMO it's too frizzy and flyaway to wear down. Just looks awful. For a time I even used this kind of haircomb to wear it back and the thing was so tight I started to go bald on the sides of my head! Now, when I put it in a loose tail until Ma can come home and do it, if there are lumps or strands out I may do it over and over and over, for over a half hour, or I may cut off hunks that bother me. Not good. :( I also wear loose clothing all the time. I HATE tight clothing. The feel is bad enough, but I don't want to subject anyone to looking at me like that. I know how I feel when I see a large person wearing too-tight clothing; why do that to myself? BLECH!

* I HATE being touched. Those commercials for Lever soap, I think it is? Where they show the families getting all touchy-feely and running their hands all over each other, taking baths together, etc.? I GAG GAG GAG when I see those! How can those people STAND that? Yet at the same time, I long to be hugged and such, etc., but I just can't stand it. I remember after graduation a friend hugged me and I just went stiff. I didn't even notice this (only my own discomfort) until she pulled away and said half-jokingly, "You're not a very huggy person, are you?" *eep* I have nice visions of curling up with somebody, but I don't think I could ever do that in real life. Granted, my family isn't very touchy-feely--we don't go around hugging and such all the time, not at all--but even when I AM hugged, I just feel creepy. I'm not certain what the cause of this is, but I think ONE big reason is my hygiene. I don't feel clean--I probably smell or something, since I don't take the best care of myself. And there's how I feel I look. AND there are my fears about how clean/dirty others might be. In other words, it's probably an obsessive-compulsive (cleanliness) thing. One can never tell.

ADDED 6/3: * Oh yes. A few more things I can think of at the moment. I write some material that I will never post in my portfolio...I have a lot of it, in fact. It might or might not have anything to do with anything mentioned above; I can never tell. Who knows. Won't say more about it publicly, only privately (IF I can summon the guts).

* I can't stand turtlenecks as they cover my neck (EW!--UGH!--ICKY FEELING!), and I dislike long sleeves as they cover my arms (BLAH!--ACK!!)...yet for some reason, I'm okay with jackets and coats. Hm. :/

* Whenever eating publicly, restaurants, I always HAVE to sit on one particular side of the table or booth. I could never ever figure out this pattern; I would just "know" which seat was "right" for me, instinctively, without having to even think about it. After looking it over I've realized what the pattern is. My pattern is to always either BE NEAREST THE EXIT or HAVE THE EXIT IN PLAIN SIGHT! It's the same way when I chose seats in classrooms. I tended to sit near the front, as I don't like being in the back, yet in one class in college I found I sat near the back. Why?? I hate the back! But...that was where the door was! In all my other classes, it had been near the front.

Likewise in restaurants. I ALWAYS sit so I'm either right near the door, if it's behind me, or so I'm facing it and have a good view of it, if it's in front of me yet far away. This could be a social phobia thing, but who knows! o_O

(I may add more later! That's all I can think of right now.)


Hmmmmmm, I know I probably had more to say than this. But I can't think of it now and I'm getting so tired of writing this entry. This hasn't been proofread and may have typos. If I do so later, or add more, I'll include an update.

Bye for now...