crash&burn.

Everything is amazing. Everything is so fucking amazing. Look, ma, my arms are covered in scars! Isn’t that wonderful? Of course it is! Look, look, look, everything is wonderful! Nothing is wrong, nothing’s ever wrong. Amazingamazingamazing.
Why am I so goddamned happyyyyyyyyy? Does it even matter? Hapyyhappyahpyyaweakjwejankanjeaeaea. If I’m happy why do I want to cut? Because everything is wonderful, of course. Wonderful, even if it’s bleeding.
Fuckfuckfuck scary. This is scary. I can’t think. Happiness is choking me. It’s not even happiness. Hyper. Hyperhyper. But not outwardly hyper. Not enough to show how my blood is rushing and turning into sugar water. I’m gallivanting around the house, sailing on a wave of nerves and hyperactivity, yelling HELLO, HELLO, HELLO! to everyone and laughing and carrying on rambling conversations with myself, but displaying it to them for entertainment. Hello, hello! HiiiiiI! I love you! Did you see the moth that was on the lamp? The cat tried to eat it but it flew, flew, flew away and I bet now it’s just going to die in a few hours. It escaped but it’s dead. Isn’t that funny? Hey, do you want to go for a drive? Let’s go for a drive! Adventure! It’s a lovely day, even though it’s cloudy. It’s DRIVING TIME. Come on, come on, come ooooooooon. How can you be tired? EVERYTHING IS WONDERFUL.
This isn’t even hyper. This is twitchtwitchtwitch, itchiness crawling under my skin, wanting. Needing. I need something. I need a lot of something. I need to get in my Mom’s van, even if I don’t know how to drive, and peel out of the driveway at eighty miles per an hour and go bump bump bump along the pothole roads and keep driving until I crash or the gas runs out. I need to eat food, a lot of food, and throw up. I need to cut and cut and cut until I’m too dizzy to stand. I need to drink vodka until my belly is a little, round sea full of sourness. I needneedneed something. I need something. What do I need?
I need to do something. I needneedneed.
I wonder how deep on my arm I’d need to go to slice my veins open. I’ve gone deep enough to see bone and still never have cut one there. Where do you need to cut to slice a vein, besides your wrist? How hard do you need to press, how fast do you need to swipe, to cut all your layers open with one clean slice? Maybe it’s clumsy. Maybe you need to slash the same spot over and over again. You want suicide to be painless but you’re left hacking at the same spot over and over, crying and blubbering because you’re starting to change your mind in this long process but you’ve gone to far to stop it now. So hack hack hack hack. I wonder if when you slit your wrists if the mortician sews your skin back together like it’s not too late to save you. “It’s all for presentations sake,” he’d say, gesturing to your sewn flesh. you, still in your body but no one can hear you, laugh inside your head. FOR PRESENTATIONS SAKE? Keeping up presentations is what got you sleeping in a cold metal box every night in the first place, what drove your mind to crack crack crack until you split your arm in half.
No one wants to play. No one wants to go driving or dancing or drink with me. No one wants like I do. Calling everyone, talking at a million miles an hour.
arianna. arianna. ARI.

ARIANNA.
what?
you’re not making sense.
I make more sense than you do! How can it not make sense? Hey, hey, hey.
Ari, call me later when you’re less hyper. Love you.
But but but!

^ I wrote this a week or two ago.
My new physiatrist is calling this ‘mania’. Is this what mania is? Am I manic? Am I crazy crazy crazy, manic one day and depressed the next?
I am ‘a classic case of bipolar,’ ‘showing all the symptoms’, ‘have been untreated for years’, ‘misdiagnosed with a personality disorder, although there is a possibility she has both’.
I am a bulimic anorexic bipolar obsessive compulsive borderline personality disordered mess of a girl. I got what I wanted - I got the breakdown, the pills and the doctors and the scars. I wanted this, in some way I did. It doesn’t make me happy, though. It makes my stomach churn, thinking of how much I’ve failed to even be human.
I’m scared of the diagnosis. I’m scared that it explains too much. The random periods of not needing sleep, sleeping for two hours a night and not feeling tired at all, staying up and rearranging and dancing and walking in circles. The way I get depressed out of no where, sunken very low for a few days and then suddenly sailing around on a wave of euphoria the next week. The impulsiveness, the lack of care for myself,  the lack of foresight, the way I can’t concentrate for too long, the thoughts that race too fast and I can’t process them.
Apparently prozac is very bad to be taking if you’re bipolar. Which almost explains why it’s been making me feel worse instead of better, an uncomfortable numb all over inside.
I don’t want to be bipolar. I don’t want to be like him. I remember what he was like. Screaming and yelling, throwing things [the time the glass shattered over my face, the fork in my hand], disappearing for days to go to another state because he felt like it. I remember how he blamed it all on his disorder. I remember how he could blame out things he did later on on that too. I don’t want to be anything like my biological father. I don’t want to have his hair colour or eye colour or the shape of his nose or the height of his forehead. I don’t want to be his daughter’s sister, which is why I stopped talking to her.
I don’t want any of this. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want the scars all over my body or the way my heart speeds up when I try to eat or the self confidence of a pile of shit or the black and white thinking or the obsession with threes. I don’t want to be in pain anymore, even if I deserve it.
My arm hurts like a motherfucker. The tendons from my shoulder to my hand ache whenever I move my fingers.
Shut up. Stupid bitch. You're so fucking stupid. You get one meal today.

I’m grounded. Won’t be posting much.