Yesterday, I read this blog post at John Green's Tumblr.
(Yes, hello! All inclusive I've-missed-writing-here sentence/essay/tome/holy script!)
I've been through a lot. I've tried and I've given up. I've been angry at the world, depressed at the state of it and its inhabitants, and even on the rare occasions, amazed and impressed at how good some people can choose to be. I was brave, and I ran away like a kicked puppy. I craved for the affection and approval of people who would never give me any of those things, and I stuck my middle fingers up at the same people who I would never approve or feel affection towards. I've felt empathy towards whiny angst-ridden attention-seekers and scoffed at their unoriginality. I've pretended to be someone I wasn't, and I tried my damnedest to show people that I can be whoever the fuck I want to be. I've looked in the mirror and liked what I saw, and I took another look and felt like stabbing something. I've wanted it all to be over more than a million times, and I want to just get through it twice as many times.
There are no 'buts' to any of that, because I am all of the things that happened to me. I am not a survivor, I'm still trying to get the hang of this 'living' and 'co-existing' thing. I am not a brave person facing terminal illness or anything all that world-changing. And I would like to say that we all have our own crosses to bear but that makes me sound like a douche, because my cross has and always will be so insignificant when compared to some other peoples'. But the problem with this thought process, the flaw in it, is that it presupposes we, as humans, are capable of being anything other than who we are. We are undoubtedly capable of varying degrees of empathy, we can care for each other and fall in love, but unless that creepy Freaky Friday magic really exists, there is no way for me to fly out of my body and enter someone else's. I am not significant, but I don't think that my problems are particularly all that insignificant.
People have pitied me and looked down on me, tried to fix me and supported me, encouraged me and told me to plant my feet firmly in reality, and at the end of the day, I truly feel like everyone, even those who outwardly supported me or never said a word against anything I've ever done, are against me; that they oppose my life choices. Teachers call me troubled, Elyna wrote that post on her blog (which sounds just about right as an echo to plenty of other opinions, I'm sure), and I have never felt more isolated, more alone, more lonely, more by myself, but the complexity of it all lies in the fact that I asked for it.
That was the stupidest bullshit I've ever written. Excuse me while I find a toilet somewhere and retch my lungs out.
Anyways, Happy Esther Day! I can't tell you how many times I cried today, or how many times I cried this time last year, because let's not go there. To answer your ever original question: home school is fine. I finished my Chemistry syllabus today. As I grow more and more assured of what I'm going to do when I grow up (although there is no way in hell I am getting any form of support from my parents), I'm thinking what a huge waste of time all of this Add Math and Physics stuff is, but it's fun, to be able to figure things out on my own and test me on my own merits. I do miss school, the worst part being that I am not going to have a Grease-like ending to my high school career, with a carnival and flying cars and all that (and graduation and prom, of course, not that I was planning on attending prom in the first place). But why do I keep making this all about me? Sorry, force of habit, won't happen again.