junioritis and more complaining, whining, being a coward

At school they don't seem willing to admit that senioritis is a serious disease that sets in about the last part of your Freshman year and intensifies to an insane buzz by the months right before you graduate. Today in my Carroll calc class everyone was bouncing off the walls. Sometimes I feel like that. Sometimes I want them to all shut up, grow up, and stop talking so dang loudly. But the truth is I really hate school by this time of year. I hate the idiot seniors in math that all stare at me like I'm a paramecium (doesn't help I just got fourth on the AMC, better than them). I hate history and my idiot liberal teacher that thinks liberalism should be smashed in everyone's face and that someone ought to be murdered or something like that if they get in a hunting accident and accidentally shoot someone. Like I've said, I'm more democratic than republican, economically at least, but some of the idiotic teachers and kids at my school make me want to be an extreme republican just to rub it in their faces.
And I hate dissecting things in biology... I HATE it. And I hate chemistry because my teacher can't teach. And I hate money management because she grades our papers so horribly I want to punch her. And I hate my English teacher who thinks he understands philosophy but really only indoctrinates us with his own incredibly subjective (and selective) viewpoints.

I had a therapy session today for the first time in a month. I sat on the same couch I've sat in since I was seven. I remember when my parents told me about my counselor I had a dream that she was a witch. I wouldn't talk to her for years. Now I want to go back and make the way I played with things less suggestive. It was so obvious how angry I was. Today she asked about cutting and not eating and I told her little half truths. I did cut last week but it didn't feel like anything. It felt... mechanical. I don't know. I am so disillusioned. I am sort of happy but I don't know how to deal with being happy. I can cope with depression and self-destruction so much better. I've never been happy in my life until this year. Am I supposed to think this is me? I know what happens if I stop taking the pills. I know where happiness goes. Does it count then, if it's artificial? I hate the pills. I hate the way I can't write, can't think. I hate how sick I am with every pill I take because of last year's continuous overdosing.
Just being in that room reminds me how screwed up life is. How many bad memories do I have in that room? I remember a few times when my counselor would point at the messy little-kid drawings on her wall and say I drew that last week. And she said I told her my name was Leena and that I was four. And that's how it was in the hospital. I kept shifting in and out of myself. I couldn't remember half of things. Half of them I could feel the identities in my mind caving, splitting. I cried myself to sleep every night. They needed to get an EKG and they took me to a room and the nurse said take off your shirt, your bra and I became so many people at once, fighting to control me, and I finally settled into somebody young, someone who thinks her name is Leena and that she's six years old, and I sat on that chair holding my knees in and rocking myself and crying and crying until they came and took me away and I was fourteen then. But not all of me. Some parts of me weren't fourteen. I was split open, split up. And my mom moved out and nothing made sense.

It is like that now. How do I live when I know that craziness is in me? The only reason I survived the hospital was Spongebob and the friends I made there, all us "crazy" kids who wanted to die or kept switching personalities or who cut their arms with razorblades or threw chairs when they were angry. All of us rejected. I may have been the "craziest" one there. And I remember when they told me they needed to write down all of my scars and I stood shivering as they drew some picture of all of my mistakes (they were mistakes, weren't they?) and the nurse looked so sad when she drew that scar on that paper girl's wrist. And I remember that night they thought I was going to drink the shampoo out of their little paper cup, like I thought that would kill me or something. I remember lying in my bed with my house a few blocks away and my father five hundred feet away in his office, not visiting me. Maybe he hated me for mom getting taken away... I remember how terrified I was. And I just lay there sobbing becuase they wouldn't come.

I've never been as homesick as then. Every night I would lie on my bed and remember pieces of my past until I didn't know what was real anymore, how much could possibly have happened and how much I am sick and made up in my mind. And I still don't know! I don't know whether my flashbacks are real, whether all of my horrible memories are fabricated because I need some excuse for the tatters that I was ripped in, for those crazy people in my head (they're still there, waiting for me to get older, to get as raw and close to the edge as I was in that hospital).

I hated the windows bolted shut! I hated the group therapy where we all taked about getting raped and wanting to die. I hated that little room, that room with the office and with my folder on the wall and what were they writing? I hated the play therapy, those stupid games, our stupid lives, the girl throwing chairs at the wall, the people with flashlights every fifteen minutes all night long...

I don't think I can ever forgive them for making me go there, even if it did save my life. Every time I look at that stupid picture on the wall at my counselor's that that girl- Leena- drew, that little kid who is somehow part of me, the bottom drops out of my stomach. I didn't know who I was anymore after I went there. Maybe I never had, but after that I didn't have a past, only a thousand fractured memories of people screaming, hitting, taking my clothes off, of me crying, screaming, laying on the floor when my brother left, and how do you make a picture of that many pieces, mismatched, unordered?

Do you know what I want? I want to know the truth. I want to know exactly what happened to me when I was little, exactly why I'm so crazy, why I can't even be happy. Because I can't. We talk about nihilism... I can't imagine that. But I can't imagine it's antithesis either. And most importantly, I can't remember myself. I am a void. I am all of the bad dreams, the bad memories...

And now I am me, struggling to live, because I am happy now and I don't know what to do with the past and I don't know how to become all of the people inside me.

OH... and I'm telling Josh it has to stop, he has to get help or I get him help.

EDIT upon regaining sanity: I really sound like I'm complaining in this post, because I am. I'm sorry. It was a cathartic. All of that was built up inside me and I didn't know it. I'm really angry today, and I think it is Josh I am angry at, but I am angry and frustrated and determined and confused and I'm happy, and I don't know who to be when all those things make no sense together.