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9-19-01 - 11:53 p.m.

I just realized (again) the other day that, biologically, I am an orphan. Little Orphan Laurie, that's me.

Both my hated biological parents died this summer. Brent of a ruptured aneurysm, Anne of...well, suicide.

How the hell twisted is that?

This is turning into one of those Lifetime Original Movies things. Tracey Gold will play me, with Natalie Portman as Kellie, Mark Paul Gosselar as Rob, Stockard Channing as Sharon, and Tyne Daley as Janet. An all-star cast. Critically acclaimed. Directed by Whoopi Goldberg and with a special guest appearance (why are there special guests in movies?) by Robert Redford as The Guy Who Never Quite Fully Opens His Eyes.

I'm in a funk. It's a phrase I stole from Barbara, and it fits how I've been feeling perfectly. How's that? I don't know. I honestly don't know how to describe my mood over the past several days except to say that I'm in a funk.

I'm working full-time at my old job, a waitress at a trendy midscale restaurant in the heart of Trendyville, California. I was scheduled to work the past three days at the coffeeshop, on top of my restaurant duties. I didn't call. Didn't show up. I was told I had to give them two weeks' notice before quitting�at a coffeshop?! I didn't agree with that policy, so I'm taking the Office Space way out: I'm not going. True, I'm ditching it only so I can go work elsewhere, but the basic principle is the same.

I've been getting really short-tempered and "snippy" with people lately. Kellie flat-out told me on the phone today that I'm "being a huge bitch to everyone" and should "just keep [my] mouth shut if [I'm] gonna be mean to people who don't deserve it." I hung up on her.

I was excited about my birthday last week, the freedom that comes with turning 18. But I've been thinking of what else is going to happen in 12 days and I'm apprehensive. I'm inheriting what Brent left me (a chunk of money and a beach house) and I don't want to be saddled with that kind of responsiblity. It's not like I'm getting $10 million dollars or anything that outrageous, but the actual amount is a lot more than I've ever had...though considering I've been poor my whole life I guess it doesn't mean much.

George has suggested I rent out the beach house, a plan I intend to keep. I like my apartment. It's quaint and cozy and in the best part of town. Pacific Beach, where I live, is sort of like Haight-Ashbury meets Endless Summer, San Diego's own tourist-trapping plethora of "typical California culture."

There is no way in hell I'm gonna be able to make it to two months. I'm not gonna be able to make it through this week without a drink. It's either I drink or I cut. I've smoked a little bit already (two cigarettes) but they don't help. I'm about ready to tear my hair out, strand by tiny strand. I haven't cut (Bryan says he'll leave if I do and I can't bear to lose another Hot Male Roommate).

I've had something like six or eight hours total sleep for the past few days and am surviving on "Espresso Shots" from Starbucks and Jolt Cola. I've tried to sleep. I go to bed every night with every intention of sleeping well, but it never seems to happen. I end up just lying there in my bed and staring. Sometimes, when I don't lock her outside my room, my cat will come in and purr as loud as she possibly can before realizing that I'm not about to get up to feed her for the fifteen-millionth time that day and hopping back down with a half-assed squeak of indignation. But it's not Chessie's fault. I've fallen asleep with her motorboat of a purr in my ear before. Lately I just haven't been able to sleep at all. It's like high school all over again.

So of course I told Janet this, and I told her that I had screwed up two orders at work and brought back water in one girl's Sprite glass�twice, this girl was a freakin' camel�and how I've been having mild headaches off and on all day. She said she thinks I might either be developing or already suffering from some kind of an anxiety disorder.

Great. Just what I need. Another fucking disorder.

It's not enough that I'm a guilt-stricken Borderline, or that I'm an incessantly unhappy Depressed girl, no, I might have an anxiety disorder.

Janet said she would call my former psychiatrist to discuss switching my medication. I freaked. Changing meds for me would be a huge deal, because I've grown to like my current anti-depressant. She said I look like I'm gaining weight (a good thing, she said, considering she thought I looked almost emaciated for a while) but that it's obvious how little sleep I've had.

I asked her if she could ask my psychiatrist a very importand question for me. She said she could. I said I wanted him to prescribe for me a drug that would keep me from feeling at all. I told her I want to be numbed completely. She asked if I'd be willing to give up the positive feelings in order to never feel badly. I shrugged and said, "What positive feelings?"

I have occasional bouts of happiness and excitement and things like that, but they never last more than a few hours and are always just barely covering up what I'm really feeling, which is awful.

I just don't get how one person can feel this awful, and I don't get why I have to be that one person.

I also feel like everybody's watching me. Some people are waiting for me to fail and slit my wrists and die, sad and alone. Others, I think, are counting on me to help them win whatever bet they've put on me, like they're waiting for the day when I wake up and am suddenly fine. I'm waiting for that day, too.

I'm tired of people offering me help. I'm tired of people telling me to go to AA (don't you think I've been?) I'm tired of resenting people who offer to help me. But above all, I'm tired of trying so hard to make things better and never seeing or feeling any results. Good things come to those who wait. When's it gonna be my turn?

I want to go to bed. I want to sleep. I want to just stop feeling.

 

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