The procedure went well, I guess. They took out over seven hundred milliliters of fluid. That's a fucking lot. Then they're sending it out, and in about a week, I should hear back from the gynecologist. Then, we'll know if it's cancerous or not, and what I'll have to do.

I hope it's cancerous. Terminally cancerous.

So, I don't think I told you that the cysts are actual tumors. Benign tumors, at that. Meaning, they're not cancerous. At least, that's what the gynecologist thinks. My dad seems to still be worried that they are cancerous.

I want them to be cancerous.

Call me fucked up if you want, but think about it. I want to not be alive. But I can't kill myself. Either I'm not strong enough, or I'm too strong. But whatever it is, I just can't do it. Maybe I just don't have the energy. I'm too tired and weak to do it. That's what it is. I'm not strong enough.

And suicide, what a selfish way to die. Oh, poor thing, world got too tough on you? Welcome to fucking reality. That's the way I see it. Even people who have been abused and tormented through life, suicide is the weak way out. Fight up for yourself. I probably should do that, too. I mean, my life isn't that bad. But whatever the hell is wrong with me makes it feel like it's so much worse than it really is. I lay in bed sometimes at night, thinking of how pointless life is. Mine in particular. I'm not really good at anything. I'm a mediocre writer. I can't understand and analyze the stories we read in class; what makes me think I can make it as an editor? I take things as face value, and I don't think deep or critically about anything. Writing was the only thing I had passion for. So what's left? I already turned away from being a veterinarian; I'm not a science person. (Though I find space science very interesting.) I'm not smart enough, scientifically, to go into that field, though. I'm not a research person. I hate it. That rules out science in general, even social sciences. Wanting to be a psychologist? I failed Psychology class. I'm failing Sociology now. Social sciences aren't my forté either. I'm, like, out of options in life. I'm not even cut out for waitressing. I'm way too socially awkward and terrified of the world.

So what do I do? I'm wasting my time at college. I'm wasting my life. I'm a living soul who has wasted the beautiful opportunity that is life. I'm not social. I'm wasting away in my room, letting my mind melt to goo with useless video games and television shows. I've already fucked up my hearing by listening to music too loud through headphones. In complete silence, I hear a ringing in the back of my ears. It's not that loud, but I can't hear the silence of night sometimes. Sometimes, when people talk, I can't hear them.

I'm really a waste of a human being. And I hate human beings, so that makes it worse.

Sometimes I cry about my life. About how worthless I am. And this unbearable, unshakable fear that the only way out of this mess offing myself doesn't make me do anything. It doesn't make me want to fix myself, my life. It doesn't make me want to commit suicide before I really fuck up my financial situation a lot more. (College is so fucking expensive. And with my horrible resumé, I'm never going to get a good job to pay it off.) My parents aren't going to live forever. I can't live with them for the rest of my life. And it's not even like I can marry rich. You need to be attractive for that, which I'm not. And with my social awkwardness, I'm never going to even find a guy. I've had one boyfriend my entire life. That lasted for a month. I couldn't handle it. It just felt so weird and unnatural. I didn't know what to do. I freaked out, and broke up with him over AIM. And other guys in my life? I either fucked it up, or freaked out and pushed them away. Maybe the whole Ethan thing, I fucked up on purpose subconsciously, because I was terrified of a relationship.

All I know is that I'm a complete fuck up. I'm a waste of a life. All I do is waste resources, space, and time. There's a better human being out there somewhere who could use the air I breathe, the food I eat, the bed I sleep in, the clothes I wear.

Sometimes I think I should go see a therapist to talk about these issues. But, in order for someone to help you, you have to want to help yourself. I don't want to. I just want it to be over. But I don't know how to do that. I'm way too chickenshit to kill myself. I just can't do it. I almost did once. Maybe other times, but they just weren't significant enough to be committed to memory. All I know is that I want to have terminal (I have to specify—I don't want a cancer than can be removed with yet another surgery; I've had enough fucking surgeries in my life) cancer so that I can die in a way that's not just a weak escape. But is wanting to have cancer weak? I feel like it's almost exploiting something most (normal) people fear. People who are unfortunate enough to develop it and live to tell about it are survivors. They're strong people. But is wanting to have it, and wanting to succumb to it, almost spitting in their faces? I don't know. I just don't fucking know anymore. I just want to not be here. But I can't do it.

I don't think I'm depressed.

I think what my problem is is that when I'm bored, I try to find a reason why. Or, to fill in the empty spaces, I create an emotion that's strong enough to entertain my mind. I can't create my own happiness. I'm just not an optimistic person.

But depression is easy to make. Just get real sad, wallow in self-pity, and contemplate why life sucks. See? Easy.

But is the fact that it is so easy for me a sign that I am actually depressed? Or is it a sign that I'm just really pathetic and need to stop?

Sometimes, I wish I was still on my anti-depressants so that I can be social and alive again.

But then again, I wish I would just stop being so fucking anti-social and get out there.

I also noticed something else. My writing (poetry, specifically) is better when I'm experiencing some strong emotion. Be it anger, pain, depression, happiness, love, fear... But just some kind of emotion. Boredom is almost a lack of emotions, in a way. I can't write poems out of boredom. They just ramble and mean nothing. It's when I have something to say because of some emotion that my writing is really prosperous.

Sometimes, to write poetry, I think I make myself depressed. Or, by writing, I open a closed wound. Just for the sake of pumping out a decent poem.

If I went out and experienced life more, I'd have more to write about without opening closed wounds. There are some wounds that are healed enough where they can't open up again. Ethan and Vic are two examples. But they're healed over completely. Vic has barely left a scar. Ethan will be there, maybe forever. But they just can't be opened, thankfully. Lazar is probably all healed over, too. I don't think he'll really even scar, either. That was short-lived, but pretty intense. I'm not sure if I ever cut over Ethan. (I was also less alone and on anti-depressants for parts of it.)

But is this whole making-myself-depressed-to-write-better a problem? I think so.

That, and the fact that I live in a fantasy. Most of my time is spent daydreaming of a better life, rather than going out and making a better one. I need help.

As my father would say, there's not a psychiatrist smart enough to help me.

Or, as a joke, a bottle of cyanide will help. Help him get rid of his headache (me), anyways. Oh, father of mine...

Ever since I decided to go to this shithole school, everything's gone wrong. A UTI, a shitty roommate, horrible help from the actual school... Dumb classes that aren't even useful for my major.

And now, I have cysts in my ovaries (well, they've been there for who knows how long), and I have an appointment Thursday to talk about them with a gynecologist. (I may or may not have already mentioned this on here in a previous post). And, they're most likely not cancerous, but I guess there's a very slight chance? But it's a chance. I'm not worried, though. I just want them gone!

And now, we (the six of us collectively) were caught with our smoke detectors covered. Maximum sentence is expulsion. Minimum is residence probation. But the fucked up this is, I've never smoked pot in my life. I've never done any drugs. And I'm going to get in trouble. I have an initial conference on Wednesday to talk to them about it. I guess the six of us are meeting with the assistant director or whatever. I just want them to test me for drugs so I can get out of this incident. And then, I want to fucking move in with my father in Connecticut so I can not be involved with whatever bullshit that goes on in this dive of a fucking apartment! This is fucking ridiculous. I choose to live a clean, legal life, and I still get in fucking trouble. Like, what the fuck, man?? Fuck you, SUNY Poor Choice, for sticking me in this fucking room!!!

These are reasons I'm going to go fucking insane. And reasons why going here was just the worst decision ever.
Reasons why it's a best decision: it's close to Connecticut, which is where my dad is. That makes it easier to come home ('cause my dad only has to travel twenty minutes to pick me up, rather than four hours to Oswego where I would have gone if I didn't get accepted here). And, with the sudden rise of medical shit (UTI, stomach pains, medical treatment [which isn't sudden; it's a weekly thing I've been doing for about five years], and now these cysts), it's easier for him to take me to the doctors, so that I don't have to go through this alone. I mean, I go to the appointments alone. (I'm twenty years old, I would hope I could do that.) But it's dealing with that shit, and being able to go home for comfort instead of suffering at the apartment that helps.

But I still fucking hate it here! Next year will be so much better. I'll actually have a roommate that's nice! Her name is Jamie, and she seems really cool. We have our room picked out, and I'm excited. I just wish we could move in now, instead of next year!

Not sure why I wrote that. It's not really a story. It's just something I was thinking about on the way home from Purchase a couple Fridays ago for Spring Break.

   She looks at her grandmother, laying on the cheap mattress. The tubes and IVs make the elder woman look even sicklier than she would if she were in her own bed.
   "I hope you get better, Nana," the girl, about fourteen-years-old, says. She doesn't know what else to say; it's not like she is close to this woman.
   "Has no one told her?" the grandmother asks, looking at her son, the younger girl's father. The elder then looks to her grandmother. "I'm not getting better."
   The woman has pancreatic cancer, and, somewhere in the back of her mind, the girl knows her grandmother is dying. Everyone goes silent. The elder might not have been in her life much, but she is still the fourteen-year-old's grandmother, and to some extent, she loves her. To a teenager who has not dealt with losing a grandparent yet, hearing one tell her that they are dying is unsettling. She begins to tear up, but she remains calm. Crying now would only upset everyone in the cramped, sterile room.
   As they leave, the girl avoids eye contact with her father. She saw him cry a few years ago when his grandfather passed away. But her father most likely has conflicted feelings about his mother, the woman who neglected him. There might have even been physical abuse, for all she knew. The girl's unsure if he's crying now, or if he ever will. But to make things easier for her, and probably him as well, she avoids eye contact with him. During the car ride home, she manages to keep the tears under control.
   Days or weeks pass, no one keeps track of the time. But it's the Monday after Mother's Day, either 2006 or 2007, that the girl's father calls her. He's at work, and she's at home. His voice remains calm, and she takes the news well. When they hang up, she bursts into tears. With her mother there, and the small children that attend her mother's daycare, the tears go away fast. Quicker than she would have expected, given that her grandmother has just passed away. It surprises her, and at first, it bothers her. She shouldn't be laughing or smiling as the kids try to cheer her up.
   She wonders how her father is taking it. He cried for his grandfather. Would he cry for his negligent mother? She doesn't know. And she won't see him until Thursday, when he returns home a week of work in Connecticut. It's probably easier for him that she doesn't see whatever reaction he has. But going through the loss of one's mother isn't something to do alone. He should at least be with his sisters, who suffered the same childhood and yet have different views of their mother.
   The fourteen-year-old may never know how her father took the news, nor will she ever know exactly what kind of childhood he had. But with this, she gains new perspective on her own life.