Disturbing

I wrote a good four pages of thoughts while in Panera today in between shifts at work.  I'm not going to type up what it was because I'm not planning on reading it...I know for a fact that what I wrote was disturbing, mainly centered on suicide and on my confusion about life in general.  All in all, I'd rather pretend that I wasn't the one who wrote it.  Honestly, I write disturbing things all the time (most of which I keep to myself and never post on here), and when I read it (if I read it), it feels as though someone else wrote it.  Re reading my random musings always freaks me out, and I'd much rather remain blissfully ignorant to my creepy thoughts.  Sure, I am aware of what I'm writing at the time, but there's something different about writing it down as it comes to mind than looking back on it.  It's hard to explain.

Similarly, watching shows like Intervention scares the hell out of me.  There was one about a girl who was cutting herself, and I couldn't even watch the preview.  Seeing it on tv like that makes me squirm and think about how wrong it really is...and yet, I keep doing it.  I tell myself, "I'm not like that," but I think that may only be because it's different when you see things through your own eyes instead of from the outside.  But I don't look like those girls either.  Most of them have really dark undereye circles, never wear make up, and all around don't take care of themselves; I do.  I wear makeup, strut around in fancy clothes, do my hair, wear perfume, and try to cover imperfections.  Maybe that's why I do such a good job of hiding my problems by hiding everything on the outside; but the problem with these girls, I suppose, isn't what they look like or their apparent lack of style but their actual mental states.  And that is what we have in common...unfortunately.

Here I am, though, pretending that I'm perfectly normal, but if someone took one look at the things I write in my personal journals and on scrap pieces of paper that I hide in my room, then I think I would quickly find myself in a psych ward.  Is it possible to have a serious problem and never be helped?  Or is that how people wind up dead?  I don't know.  I can't say I don't want to die because that's kind of a lie, but I can't help but wonder sometimes if I'm really doomed to be forever lonely and forever in misery, even if it's my own fault for being in this position.  I'm not a bitter person because it's been my problem all along and no one else forced this on me...and maybe that's why I feel like help would be nice sometimes.  It's too bad I'm too scared to ask for it.