The thing is... I kinda, sorta hate myself.

Usually when people say they hate themselves, they don't really mean it. A lot of the time they just want sympathy. But no one reads this blog anyways, so that clearly isn't what it's designed for. I really do hate myself right now. The fact that I can't make myself work, can't make my mind function properly, it makes me hate myself.

Strangely enough though, I never feel the urges to do things that teens supposedly do when they feel upset and numb and brain-dead and hateful. I don't want to kill myself because I know that one day maybe it will all be better-- maybe the experiences of now will help inspire my writing. I don't cut myself, in fact, I think it's stupid and disgusting.

No drugs.

No drinking.

Just words.

And believe me, I write a lot of words. I just get rid of them all because I hate them.

I guess part of my problem is that I want to be perfect, and I want people to like me, and I want people to not be scared by the craziness that is my mind. When I was working on my bridge project today, my partner told me that he had thought I was normal before, but I really wasn't.

And I know I'm not normal. I just wish I didn't have to accept it.

But because I'm such a perfectionist, not just with the work I do, but with myself as well, I can never be perfect. My lack of perfection depresses me, and every time my dad says "when I was your age" it only makes it worse.

It's taken me a while to realize what my problem was, and when I did, it was very sudden.

I want to be perfect.

And I can't.

And I hate it.