So I don't like research papers, it's officially official. The stress of it mounted on my normal stress just doesn't make a good combo. I've wondered lately if I'm depressed. I have no joy in the normal things that I would enjoy. I'm more apathetic to schoolwork, more than I normally am; in my mind, if it's not done, it's not done, but at the same time, I pushing myself to make it through to Friday. Everyday I fight the battle of making it to the moment I can lay in bed and forget my fights with life.
Reading this, thinking about what I've blogged lately, none of it is "happy." It's more depressing than ever. It gets more and more depressing every time I blog. Yet, people keep reading it. Why? Why people? Surely there's nothing that people want to read from a 19 year old going through my life's trials that I despise every second.
My blog is my outsource. I put all emotions and feelings on here. It's really theraputic for me. Could I put my thoughts in a journal where it's private? Yes, I could. But it's more meaningful to me to put it on here. Plus, chances are I'm on my computer so I can type away. Whereas having a journal nearby... no. My mom reads it to see what's going on in her daughter's head, I know that much. A friend, to check up on me. My family... yes, I know you guys read this and I don't know why. But I still speak my mind here. I find comfort reading stranger's blogs who are going through life's troubles, too. Everytime I see sadness and grief in a blog I think, "Thank goodness I'm not the only one finding pain in life and screaming 'why God? Why?'" I sympathize with people who I don't even know. Their blogs are a thousand times worse than mine, but I whine about having no rock in my life anymore? It's messed up.
I'm giving my love life to God. It's one less stress to deal with. I always thought the people who would say that were so... naive. But it's the truth. I sat in the library tonight with McFormer. He was across the room yet at the same time, I kept waiting for one of us to say something. Neither of us did. Maturity or stupidity? you decide. But it's true. In my quiet time with God (blow drying my hair and/or driving is my talk time with Him) I asked myself, what am I stressing it for? I'm only 19. If I was 30, I could understand the freak out. But I'm 19, there's plenty more fish in the sea. Plenty. Mr. Right might not be with me, as much as I wish he were on this stormy night, but I have hope he'll come around someday.