in the end, is a mistake really a mistake?

This entry is from last night, but LJ was in read-only mode so I couldn't post it.

I don't even know what to say.

Monday night was very bad. School wasn't too bad; I almost felt good for once, I guess because I had an exciting weekend for once or something. I had rehearsal and then came home to find that my life had come crashing down. And then I did something really stupid.

I learned a lot about myself while I was laying there waiting to die. Wondering when it would happen and what it would feel like and if my mom would ever be okay. If anyone would miss me.

I realized a lot about life in general. It's an experience I never want to go through again, but I know I'll never the see the world in the same way. I don't regret it, really. The whole world has been put into a kaleidoscope and spun around; everything looks familiar but nothing looks the same.

I spent all day yesterday home from school on the floor of the bathroom. I puked for almost 12 hours straight and lost nearly six pounds from the bile that kept so painfully forcing its way up even when there was nothing left to expel from my stomach.

School today was surreal. I kept thinking about how I shouldn't have been there. How it was a miracle that I was alive and sitting at a desk learning about pyloric sphincters, salivary amylase, and P. Grover Cleveland, and that no one would ever know what I went through. What I did to myself.

I realized today at play rehearsal that muleteers have the right idea.

about my last entry...

I really appreciate all the comments, IMs, emails, and phone calls I got in regards to my last entry. Thank you to everyone who showed concern; it means more to me than you'll ever know. But nothing anyone can say can help me; there's nothing anyone can do. Only I can help myself; I have to do this on my own. And I will be okay someday. Not today, and not tomorrow, but I will be okay.

But I want to make it clear that I didn't write that entry to get sympathy or attention. I just wanted to ensure that I'd never forget how that felt; how I felt that night. How it felt to have every muscle in my body twitching uncontrollably and not being able to breathe and my heart pounding out of control and the ringing in my ears so loud I couldn't stand it, and how I laid there as I watched my body detach from my mind; consciousness slipping from my grasp and the life retreating from my veins. Thinking about everything and everyone I'd never see again, and everything I'd never do and see and experience. I don't want to ever forget. Isn't it sad that it takes an experience like that to open one's eyes?

I don't like people knowing how I really am inside. I feel disgusting and weak and vulnerable and stereotypical and dramatic. But this is me. This is how I feel. This is fucking me, and I need help. I need help. I admit it. I just want what I want. I want to be happy. Is that so much to ask?

And I'm so good at hiding it. You'd never know from looking at me how I really feel. I think what was tearing me apart most is that I've been dying inside for months and months and none of my closest friends had any idea. Not that it's their fault at all.

I don't know.

All of your kind words have helped immensely and in a way it feels good to have come clean; to have shown, for once, what's really going on in my heart and mind. I'm so tired of this facade; constantly plastering a false smile on my face to please everyone around me. At the same time I feel like a weak attention-seeking whore, but I want to always have a reminder of how much I almost lost.