Compulsions.

Earlier I compulsively bought something. I am not sure what it was. It will arrive in the mail eventually, and I'll know what it is, and it had better be awesome. I think it was soap or something. Soap and lotion and --stuff. 

People wonder why I want to kill myself. 

I am deeply disappointed in OPI's Gargantuan Green Grape nail polish as it does not apply for shit. I had to apply three coats, and my nails are still visible. The color is also extremely similar to a color I have that I bought at Wal-Mart for less than a dollar. It is maybe a shade lighter. And it doesn't work as well. Fury. I have never had bad luck with an OPI nail polish, so this is just---not helping my week. 

I'm not sure how I'm managing to believe I'm having a bad week. Monday turned out to be rather a good day considering I had no tests to take, and I received gummis. Tuesday I actually slept and didn't do anything. I took my usual three naps, yet it was a terrible day. Monday, too. Tomorrow is sure to be terrible as well, though I'm sure it will go quite smoothly. 

Except I ran out of my Advair, and I'm going to die. NO big deal. 

I'm reading The Bell Jar by my beloved Sylvia Plath, and I must say that the scariest thing I have experienced in my life thus far is reading that book, and saying to myself "yeah...I totally get that." I dislike reading anything written by a crazy person and relating to it. Unfortunately, I can always relate. Though Sylvia Plath was a dedicated student and made straight A's and graduated with high honors etc., and I am quite the opposite of that. Comparing myself to that and relating to her in other ways severely diminishes my self-esteem. I've got the crazy that keeps me from doing anything I want to do, like excel, or behave in accordance with my nature. FML.

I cannot sleep. I hate these days when I sleep, and I don't sleep, and I sleep, and I don't sleep. 

I want to jump off a parking deck. 

I read Twelfth Night finally. Whatever. It was interesting. I like gender bending. Sexual questions. I like the potential of intelligent discussion about it. Unfortunately, my English class is full of morons! Here I sit. Mind aswim with ideas and conversations and opinions and otherwise worthwhile things to say but not a one to whom to say them. As if anyone cares what I have to say. 

I get the feeling the majority of people who meet me believe their intelligence is superior to mine, and my therapist has no idea why I'd think that. 

It's probably low self-esteem, a common trait in people like me. It's probably my tendency to be over-concerned with what others think, another common trait in people like me. 

Or it's the fact that they ALL speak to me in a very condescending manner. OR I'm paranoid, too!

I see my psychiatrist tomorrow. I'm going to tell him that I hate him, and I'm going to demand that he re-assess his diagnoses if he wants to keep me as a patient, not prescribe more fucking medications. For all any of us knows my problems are environmental. And I know I was perfectly happy inside that hospital, but that was because I didn't have to deal with anything except waking up on time and remembering to eat. I think anyone could be perfectly happy there, which is why I'd prefer not to go back. I'd prefer to die and be done. But no, that's a terrible idea. 

Why?