It's interesting how things have changed. For instance, I originally made this blog to keep up with a couple friends on here, when I realized no one was going to read mine. There were no comments. There were no followers. I had a blog, and no audience.
So I wrote for myself. I ranted about things I didn't think anyone else would care about simply so I could get them out of my head. It didn't matter what I did or didn't put up or whether it made sense because no one was around for it to make sense to other than me.
Then I was found.
Which is a bit of a feat, let me tell you. I was amazed when I looked and saw that I had a follower. Oh, dear Jessica, how awesome it was that you found me. Then lo and behold, TWO followers. It was a miracle! I had an audience!
It wasn't that I would mind if anyone had found this blog, I always wondered if people were reading it and just not following me (this totally makes you guys sound like stalkers for reading, sorries. It is not my intention). If someone read it, great. I didn't write it for people to read but I didn't care if they did because I doubted anyone did. There was no proof.
Now I have people coming up to me in the hall saying 'I read your latest blog' and people actually COMMENTING on my entries. It makes me happy, but I kind've miss the old one.
Maybe I'll make a new one, just to see how long it takes for people to find. It would be an interesting experiment.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
A Quick, if Somewhat Vague, Update
It's interesting.
Life is turning around. Certain friends are making an attempt again. We're becoming closer again. They forgave me.
I'm almost scared about what the events of tomorrow will bring. I've been so lonely lately, so this... feeling for lack of a better term... is a strange one.
Let's hope Valentine's Day bring happiness instead of despair shall we? I hope you have an amazing time.
Life is turning around. Certain friends are making an attempt again. We're becoming closer again. They forgave me.
I'm almost scared about what the events of tomorrow will bring. I've been so lonely lately, so this... feeling for lack of a better term... is a strange one.
Let's hope Valentine's Day bring happiness instead of despair shall we? I hope you have an amazing time.
Monday, February 9, 2009
A Small Truth
Beauty is fleeting.
That's what makes it beautiful. If it is always there, it isn't extraordinary, it isn't gorgeous. It's normal. Beauty comes and goes and some people don't even see it, but it's already gone. They can't find it. it will never be the same ever again.
Every moment is different. It's unique. It'll never happen in just the same way ever again. And within each moment, is a thousand others that run away, just passing through the town for the slightest amount of time before they're gone forever. You'll never see it the same way again, it will never be the same. You can try to capture beauty, but it is just an imitation, it's not the real thing. the real thing doesn't exist, not anymore. It left a long time ago.
So you should treasure the moments you have. And the ones yet to come. Don't cry because it's done and over with. Celebrate that you had it, and what will happen. You can't even imagine it. Hold onto your imitations, for they're the best you have. They hold the memory. You will only be here for a second, only breath that bit of air for a fleeting moment before you're gone. So enjoy it while you have it. And when it is gone, remember. For the imitation that is memory is the best thing you have, and what a glorious thing it is. Because it is so much better than nothing.
That's what makes it beautiful. If it is always there, it isn't extraordinary, it isn't gorgeous. It's normal. Beauty comes and goes and some people don't even see it, but it's already gone. They can't find it. it will never be the same ever again.
Every moment is different. It's unique. It'll never happen in just the same way ever again. And within each moment, is a thousand others that run away, just passing through the town for the slightest amount of time before they're gone forever. You'll never see it the same way again, it will never be the same. You can try to capture beauty, but it is just an imitation, it's not the real thing. the real thing doesn't exist, not anymore. It left a long time ago.
So you should treasure the moments you have. And the ones yet to come. Don't cry because it's done and over with. Celebrate that you had it, and what will happen. You can't even imagine it. Hold onto your imitations, for they're the best you have. They hold the memory. You will only be here for a second, only breath that bit of air for a fleeting moment before you're gone. So enjoy it while you have it. And when it is gone, remember. For the imitation that is memory is the best thing you have, and what a glorious thing it is. Because it is so much better than nothing.
A Short Thought
I love the night sky.
The stars shimmering through thin clouds, simply points of light in the dark. But they are gorgeous. The moon, watching over you wherever you are, lighting your path. It watches over the mischievous stars as they spell out their stories. Connect the dots. You'll be amazed at what you see. Past, present, future. All in a smattering of white paint across the canvas.
The stars shimmering through thin clouds, simply points of light in the dark. But they are gorgeous. The moon, watching over you wherever you are, lighting your path. It watches over the mischievous stars as they spell out their stories. Connect the dots. You'll be amazed at what you see. Past, present, future. All in a smattering of white paint across the canvas.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
It's a brand new day, the sun is high, the birds are singing because you're gonna die.
Yesterday was an interesting day.
It started out great. I caught up on the past couple of days of sleep deprivation and the previous night's party. I had cheesecake for breakfast. I made a new friend. I got ready for my cousin Evelina's birthday party. She turned five. We had some delicious pizza and I told people about working at OMSI. They were all happy. I got to see Kathy and Chris Steele for the first time since May. It was fun.
Then mom and I went shopping. By the time we got to the mall, we were exhausted. But we trudged on because I needed pants for when I worked at OMSI the following week. We saw my sister working away at Macy's, and she showed us some stuff on sale. We finally got to the dressing rooms, and the pants weren't working out too well. Then my sister told me something that I didn't know: apparently I'm fat. Apparently the jeans that I was wearing and constantly had to pull up were too small. And the size I thought I was was about 2 sizes too small.
Normally, I'd just blow her off. She was wrong, because I thought I looked fine. It doesn't matter what other people say, as long as you like yourself. Everyone else's opinion is irrelevant when you are happy.
But something got to me. Suddenly I looked in the mirror and I just wanted to cry. My hair waas so ugly. My hips were huge. I looked practically pregnant. My arms were flabby. My face was all broken-out. I felt so self-concious and utterly hideous. All because Sarah told me my pants were too tight when they weren't. If it were anyoen else, I wouldn't have believed them. I thought I was fine. But no, Sarah had to do it. Sarah made me doubt myself, which is something not many can get me to do.
Sarah went back to work. Mom and I finished trying on outfits, and then I avoided looking in the mirror because if I focused on it, I'd be bawling. I had wanted to go to Forever 21 while we waited for Sarah to get off work, but now that I felt huge and their sizes run really small anyway I didn't feel so much like it. Mom dragged me to Eddie Bauer to see if I could find pants there. It was interesting. In every cute pair of pants I found, there seemed to be an 18, a couple of 4's and 6's and then about fifteen 10's. 10 is what I thought my size was. Sarah believed I was a 14. So, I tried them on for the hell of it. I confessed a small part of how self-concious I was feeling to mom earlier and she warned me that Eddie Bauer runs small. I thought she was lying to amke me feel better if the 10's didn't fit. I appreciated it and zipped up the pants to find an astounding thing: they fit. A little snug (Mom wasn't lying) but they fit. I was amazed that I was right.
It was a weird feeling. I'm comfortable with myself. I don't do things that make me self-concious and I don't doubt myself. Soemhow, in a split second all of that had changed with Sarah saying my jeans were too tight. It was so weird to experience that doubt, that feeling that I didn't like how I looked. I was so consumed in it, and almost as fast as she had said those fateful words, I had worn a pair of pants and it was gone.
We got Sarah, went home, and changed our clothes. I rubbed it in Sarah's face that my new pants were 10's and they fit, just to prove her wrong. A little petty, maybe, but hell, it made me feel better. Me and Sarah went to Coraline in 3-D and it was fun. I found out my cousin Chris Steele did the lighting. Afterwards, we were planning to do a double feature, but it was too late and we were too tired. We got out into the lobby about 12:30. Sarah went over to look at the employment application thing and I complained that I wanted to go home. She said she would be fast. I wandered the lobby, bored. I found out Transformers 2 is being released on my birthday. I tried to tell Sarah and she snapped at me. I left her alone. I watched someone play DDR to entertain myself while I waited.
Sarah came in the Arcade yelling. Everyone stared at me. Apparently she had been calling my name and didn't know where I was. Well, great she found me. Was she done yet? No, she had needed to borrow my phone. Did I let her? yes, I didn't want to make any more issues. for that same reason, when she asked I spell-checked the application. By the time we were done, an hour later (the process was supposed to be 30 minutes long), she lectured me about how she needs a second job to help out the family and I can't go out of sight because I can't be trusted on my own because of the course of the summer. I' so tired of having that be an excuse. I've proven myself trustworthy since then over and over but no one sees it.
We finally got home, and I just went into my room and cried. It wasn't the fight, because we had had worse ones. It was just everything. The comments over the course of the day, the arguments, the need for her to get two jobs, losing Thom, abandoning Tori, everything. I just felt so helpless. There was nothing I could do. I finally fell asleep I don't even know what time. The day had been so nice. The sun was out, it was warm, I at pizza and hung out with my wacky cousins. But of course, good things don't last. the day had to end up with me crying myself to sleep at 2 or 3 in the morning.
It started out great. I caught up on the past couple of days of sleep deprivation and the previous night's party. I had cheesecake for breakfast. I made a new friend. I got ready for my cousin Evelina's birthday party. She turned five. We had some delicious pizza and I told people about working at OMSI. They were all happy. I got to see Kathy and Chris Steele for the first time since May. It was fun.
Then mom and I went shopping. By the time we got to the mall, we were exhausted. But we trudged on because I needed pants for when I worked at OMSI the following week. We saw my sister working away at Macy's, and she showed us some stuff on sale. We finally got to the dressing rooms, and the pants weren't working out too well. Then my sister told me something that I didn't know: apparently I'm fat. Apparently the jeans that I was wearing and constantly had to pull up were too small. And the size I thought I was was about 2 sizes too small.
Normally, I'd just blow her off. She was wrong, because I thought I looked fine. It doesn't matter what other people say, as long as you like yourself. Everyone else's opinion is irrelevant when you are happy.
But something got to me. Suddenly I looked in the mirror and I just wanted to cry. My hair waas so ugly. My hips were huge. I looked practically pregnant. My arms were flabby. My face was all broken-out. I felt so self-concious and utterly hideous. All because Sarah told me my pants were too tight when they weren't. If it were anyoen else, I wouldn't have believed them. I thought I was fine. But no, Sarah had to do it. Sarah made me doubt myself, which is something not many can get me to do.
Sarah went back to work. Mom and I finished trying on outfits, and then I avoided looking in the mirror because if I focused on it, I'd be bawling. I had wanted to go to Forever 21 while we waited for Sarah to get off work, but now that I felt huge and their sizes run really small anyway I didn't feel so much like it. Mom dragged me to Eddie Bauer to see if I could find pants there. It was interesting. In every cute pair of pants I found, there seemed to be an 18, a couple of 4's and 6's and then about fifteen 10's. 10 is what I thought my size was. Sarah believed I was a 14. So, I tried them on for the hell of it. I confessed a small part of how self-concious I was feeling to mom earlier and she warned me that Eddie Bauer runs small. I thought she was lying to amke me feel better if the 10's didn't fit. I appreciated it and zipped up the pants to find an astounding thing: they fit. A little snug (Mom wasn't lying) but they fit. I was amazed that I was right.
It was a weird feeling. I'm comfortable with myself. I don't do things that make me self-concious and I don't doubt myself. Soemhow, in a split second all of that had changed with Sarah saying my jeans were too tight. It was so weird to experience that doubt, that feeling that I didn't like how I looked. I was so consumed in it, and almost as fast as she had said those fateful words, I had worn a pair of pants and it was gone.
We got Sarah, went home, and changed our clothes. I rubbed it in Sarah's face that my new pants were 10's and they fit, just to prove her wrong. A little petty, maybe, but hell, it made me feel better. Me and Sarah went to Coraline in 3-D and it was fun. I found out my cousin Chris Steele did the lighting. Afterwards, we were planning to do a double feature, but it was too late and we were too tired. We got out into the lobby about 12:30. Sarah went over to look at the employment application thing and I complained that I wanted to go home. She said she would be fast. I wandered the lobby, bored. I found out Transformers 2 is being released on my birthday. I tried to tell Sarah and she snapped at me. I left her alone. I watched someone play DDR to entertain myself while I waited.
Sarah came in the Arcade yelling. Everyone stared at me. Apparently she had been calling my name and didn't know where I was. Well, great she found me. Was she done yet? No, she had needed to borrow my phone. Did I let her? yes, I didn't want to make any more issues. for that same reason, when she asked I spell-checked the application. By the time we were done, an hour later (the process was supposed to be 30 minutes long), she lectured me about how she needs a second job to help out the family and I can't go out of sight because I can't be trusted on my own because of the course of the summer. I' so tired of having that be an excuse. I've proven myself trustworthy since then over and over but no one sees it.
We finally got home, and I just went into my room and cried. It wasn't the fight, because we had had worse ones. It was just everything. The comments over the course of the day, the arguments, the need for her to get two jobs, losing Thom, abandoning Tori, everything. I just felt so helpless. There was nothing I could do. I finally fell asleep I don't even know what time. The day had been so nice. The sun was out, it was warm, I at pizza and hung out with my wacky cousins. But of course, good things don't last. the day had to end up with me crying myself to sleep at 2 or 3 in the morning.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Reflection of My Unknown Birth
Some people say that in order to know your future, or to know who you are, you have to know your past.
To these people, I respectfully say: "Bullshit, I'm living proof."
For those of you who don't know, I'm adopted. And when you want to know why your mother gave you up at birth when your seven years old, what you're told is a large stretch of the truth. Then when you're ten, you learn something that is contradicting to what you thought, and then eventually you find out the 'real' story. The problem is that you've heard so many stories over the years that they've all melded into this kind of all-consuming, hypocritical truth that's really hard to remember all the parts of. So I honestly have no clue why I was adopted, whether or not my mother loved me, or anything about the family I came from. But I know who I am.
I do know some things. For instance, my birth mother's name. Shannon McGowen. My father was some architect or contractor or something and his name was Moses. No joke. I have a half-brother out there somewhere. My birth-father agreed with whatever Shannon thought was right to do with the baby. Oh, and I was never meant to exist. My mother had some sort of disorder or medication or SOMEthing where she didn't think it was possible to get pregnant. The chance was just low. And she found out I existed a little too late to get rid of me. She wasn't married, and as far as I know wasn't especially wealthy either. She was a drug addict. She kicked the habit, but her sister Moira did not and jumped off a bridge with her boyfriend when I was about eight. I have never had contact with Shannon. I am told she used to visit, but stopped. It was an open adoption and she could come see me anytime, but has not. I do not know why. I do not know why I was given up. I do not know my family's medical history, or where I came from. Yet I know who I am.
I didn't used to know all the not-so-nice details of my family. Those are a recent discovery. One day I was explaining to a friend how I was adopted and answering the usual questions about it when they abruptly said "You know, your mom is going to end up being a druggie or something." You don't really know how much this impacted me then. Because it was possible. She could be, and I didn't know it. I had done up until that point what quite a few adopted and foster kids and people who don't know thier blood family do, I was imagining my life would be perfect if only I hadn't been adopted.
Because shit happens. People complain, but I would always think, "if I weren't adopted, my life would be like this and this" I would be rich. I would have the perfect parents. I wouldn't have this problem or that problem because I wouldn't have this life. It wasn't that I blamed my parents for adopting me and Shannon for giving me up. No, it had just happend, and if it had not, life would be different and different had to be better.
So on that day, Charles made me realize how grateful I was that I was in this life, living with these people. I could've had a worse life. I could've gotten adopted by some jackass who didn't give a shit or beat me or something. It could have been better, but it also could have been worse.
And then, of course. I was curious if she really was a druggie and found out the "real" story. And of course she was. But hearing my mom and sister go on and on about what they think happend made me realize something else. These two people in front of me, they were my mom and my sister. My momma. My Dezzi. Shannon was... Shannon. She was the woman who carried me in her womb for nine months, who went through the pain of having me, the effort of finding the perfect family to give me to and I didn't feel at all close to her. She wasn't my mom. Biologically, yes. But in any other way, no. She was a stranger to me. And I felt guilty, I feel guilty, that I think of her that way. She went through all this effort but I still will not call her my mom. She may love me, but I have no feelings towards her.
And yeah, one day I'd be interested to see who she is. I want to meet the woman who gave me up. But I'm also afraid that she won't want to see me, but tough shit. I mean, there has to be a reason she hasn't contacted me in 15 years. And I don't so much want to meet her, as I want to meet the person she was when she gave me up. I don't want to hear a 15-year thought out justification of why she gave me up. I want to hear the decision made when it was made. bot don't get me wrong, maybe she had a good reason to give me up. Maybe she loved me. But maybe not. So I'm not really sure how I feel on the subject, actually. If she wanted to see me, okay I'll meet her. But if she doesn't take any steps to find me, should I take the steps to find the person who gave me up 15 years ago to listen to the well-planned answers to all of the questions? I want the real story. Is that so selfish?
To these people, I respectfully say: "Bullshit, I'm living proof."
For those of you who don't know, I'm adopted. And when you want to know why your mother gave you up at birth when your seven years old, what you're told is a large stretch of the truth. Then when you're ten, you learn something that is contradicting to what you thought, and then eventually you find out the 'real' story. The problem is that you've heard so many stories over the years that they've all melded into this kind of all-consuming, hypocritical truth that's really hard to remember all the parts of. So I honestly have no clue why I was adopted, whether or not my mother loved me, or anything about the family I came from. But I know who I am.
I do know some things. For instance, my birth mother's name. Shannon McGowen. My father was some architect or contractor or something and his name was Moses. No joke. I have a half-brother out there somewhere. My birth-father agreed with whatever Shannon thought was right to do with the baby. Oh, and I was never meant to exist. My mother had some sort of disorder or medication or SOMEthing where she didn't think it was possible to get pregnant. The chance was just low. And she found out I existed a little too late to get rid of me. She wasn't married, and as far as I know wasn't especially wealthy either. She was a drug addict. She kicked the habit, but her sister Moira did not and jumped off a bridge with her boyfriend when I was about eight. I have never had contact with Shannon. I am told she used to visit, but stopped. It was an open adoption and she could come see me anytime, but has not. I do not know why. I do not know why I was given up. I do not know my family's medical history, or where I came from. Yet I know who I am.
I didn't used to know all the not-so-nice details of my family. Those are a recent discovery. One day I was explaining to a friend how I was adopted and answering the usual questions about it when they abruptly said "You know, your mom is going to end up being a druggie or something." You don't really know how much this impacted me then. Because it was possible. She could be, and I didn't know it. I had done up until that point what quite a few adopted and foster kids and people who don't know thier blood family do, I was imagining my life would be perfect if only I hadn't been adopted.
Because shit happens. People complain, but I would always think, "if I weren't adopted, my life would be like this and this" I would be rich. I would have the perfect parents. I wouldn't have this problem or that problem because I wouldn't have this life. It wasn't that I blamed my parents for adopting me and Shannon for giving me up. No, it had just happend, and if it had not, life would be different and different had to be better.
So on that day, Charles made me realize how grateful I was that I was in this life, living with these people. I could've had a worse life. I could've gotten adopted by some jackass who didn't give a shit or beat me or something. It could have been better, but it also could have been worse.
And then, of course. I was curious if she really was a druggie and found out the "real" story. And of course she was. But hearing my mom and sister go on and on about what they think happend made me realize something else. These two people in front of me, they were my mom and my sister. My momma. My Dezzi. Shannon was... Shannon. She was the woman who carried me in her womb for nine months, who went through the pain of having me, the effort of finding the perfect family to give me to and I didn't feel at all close to her. She wasn't my mom. Biologically, yes. But in any other way, no. She was a stranger to me. And I felt guilty, I feel guilty, that I think of her that way. She went through all this effort but I still will not call her my mom. She may love me, but I have no feelings towards her.
And yeah, one day I'd be interested to see who she is. I want to meet the woman who gave me up. But I'm also afraid that she won't want to see me, but tough shit. I mean, there has to be a reason she hasn't contacted me in 15 years. And I don't so much want to meet her, as I want to meet the person she was when she gave me up. I don't want to hear a 15-year thought out justification of why she gave me up. I want to hear the decision made when it was made. bot don't get me wrong, maybe she had a good reason to give me up. Maybe she loved me. But maybe not. So I'm not really sure how I feel on the subject, actually. If she wanted to see me, okay I'll meet her. But if she doesn't take any steps to find me, should I take the steps to find the person who gave me up 15 years ago to listen to the well-planned answers to all of the questions? I want the real story. Is that so selfish?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
These sorts of decisions change your life forever
I recently find myself in a predicament. forecasting is going to come up soon, and I'm not sure what classes I should take. Which ones will be too hard? Which ones will help me get into college? Which ones are going to be fun?
The main issue I'm having is whether or not I should try to do the IB diploma.
I've always had trouble with homework. I've almost always had bad grades. It's not because I don't understand it, it's because I don't do my homework. And I don't know why. Every year, I have the same problem, I'm getting straight D's where there should be A's because I haven't done this homework or that project. I'm always sabotaging myself when it comes to my classes and it drives me crazy because I don't know why. Why do I find it so hard to do some homework every night? Why are deadlines so difficult to meet?
It's not that I'm lazy. That would be easy to conquer and too stupid of a reason for me to go on like this. I understand the subjects. Hell, I'm in advanced classes. I'm not dumb. I'm not lazy. I have the time to do the work. Why don't I do it?
I remember at the end of the year last year, Caputo was telling us about his latest social experiment that he had conducted on our class. He was explaining why he didn't give out compliments very often, or ratehr why he never called anyone in the class 'smart'. He would tell his students instead that they were 'hard-workers'. His claim was that kids would do well but once they were told that they were smart then they started to fail. his theory was that kids who were told they were smart suddenly had a whole new pressure put onto them. They had to keep being smart, they had to challenge themselves more and they crumpled under the idea that they were smart. they couldn't handle the pressure of a title as high as that. It's easy to be average, easier to be dumb, but it's hard to be smart. He thought that instead of putting thatpressure on his students, instead he would tell them they worked hard, which was easy to do. It was easy to keep up hard work, but it was just too difficult to be smart.
Now, I know I'm smart. I understand hard concepts easily and I've grown up being put into harder challenges and being told 'You're so lucky you can understand things that others can't even fathom.' Now I'm not blaming my homework sabotage on every single person who thought they were paying me a compliment. The responsibility to do my work is completely my own. I'm the one who watched her none-special-ed sister go to Thomas Edison, a Special Ed school and do better than she did at BHS. I'm the one who watches people get better grades than me who are in average classes.
Now this whole 'smart pressure' thing is only a theory, and it's not the only reason I could not be doing my work. A part of it could be habit, lack of motivation, or I'm just one of those people who likes to eat their cake first and forget the vegetables.
It doesn't really matter what causes it. What matters is how I'm going to get over it. I want to take IB, I've got the capability. I need the IB diploma to get into college, because I'm not going anywhere without a scholarship. I don't want to admit defeat to myself and NOT do IB because I'm afraid I'll flunk out. The homework load is much larger and there are new projects every week. It's getting you ready for the workload in college. The thing is, if I can't handle my homework now, how am I going to handle IB? If I can't handle my homework now, how am I even going to get into college, let alone SURVIVE it?
I don't know what to do. I don't know how I can do this, I don't even know how to start. And if I get to overwhelmed, I'll shut down. Just stop doing any of it. So how am I supposed to balance this out? To get this to work and not fuck up the rest of my life?
The main issue I'm having is whether or not I should try to do the IB diploma.
I've always had trouble with homework. I've almost always had bad grades. It's not because I don't understand it, it's because I don't do my homework. And I don't know why. Every year, I have the same problem, I'm getting straight D's where there should be A's because I haven't done this homework or that project. I'm always sabotaging myself when it comes to my classes and it drives me crazy because I don't know why. Why do I find it so hard to do some homework every night? Why are deadlines so difficult to meet?
It's not that I'm lazy. That would be easy to conquer and too stupid of a reason for me to go on like this. I understand the subjects. Hell, I'm in advanced classes. I'm not dumb. I'm not lazy. I have the time to do the work. Why don't I do it?
I remember at the end of the year last year, Caputo was telling us about his latest social experiment that he had conducted on our class. He was explaining why he didn't give out compliments very often, or ratehr why he never called anyone in the class 'smart'. He would tell his students instead that they were 'hard-workers'. His claim was that kids would do well but once they were told that they were smart then they started to fail. his theory was that kids who were told they were smart suddenly had a whole new pressure put onto them. They had to keep being smart, they had to challenge themselves more and they crumpled under the idea that they were smart. they couldn't handle the pressure of a title as high as that. It's easy to be average, easier to be dumb, but it's hard to be smart. He thought that instead of putting thatpressure on his students, instead he would tell them they worked hard, which was easy to do. It was easy to keep up hard work, but it was just too difficult to be smart.
Now, I know I'm smart. I understand hard concepts easily and I've grown up being put into harder challenges and being told 'You're so lucky you can understand things that others can't even fathom.' Now I'm not blaming my homework sabotage on every single person who thought they were paying me a compliment. The responsibility to do my work is completely my own. I'm the one who watched her none-special-ed sister go to Thomas Edison, a Special Ed school and do better than she did at BHS. I'm the one who watches people get better grades than me who are in average classes.
Now this whole 'smart pressure' thing is only a theory, and it's not the only reason I could not be doing my work. A part of it could be habit, lack of motivation, or I'm just one of those people who likes to eat their cake first and forget the vegetables.
It doesn't really matter what causes it. What matters is how I'm going to get over it. I want to take IB, I've got the capability. I need the IB diploma to get into college, because I'm not going anywhere without a scholarship. I don't want to admit defeat to myself and NOT do IB because I'm afraid I'll flunk out. The homework load is much larger and there are new projects every week. It's getting you ready for the workload in college. The thing is, if I can't handle my homework now, how am I going to handle IB? If I can't handle my homework now, how am I even going to get into college, let alone SURVIVE it?
I don't know what to do. I don't know how I can do this, I don't even know how to start. And if I get to overwhelmed, I'll shut down. Just stop doing any of it. So how am I supposed to balance this out? To get this to work and not fuck up the rest of my life?
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