and yet i still can't seem to pick up the pen to write in a notebook. my notebook is still sitting wasting away in the trashcan. not burned to ashes because my dad has yet to burn the trash. saddens me. absolutely enrages me that its in there! and not under my bed where it belongs. my notebook was blue, well it was a composition book. blue. and in the square in the middle i had "i rock therefor i am" but then later on i got so into my darkness i wrote "wicked sin" on it. that was kinda crazy coming from a new perspective. sometimes when people think things they push them away cause they know some thoughts are meant to be kept unthought. but for me the notebook was where i could escape in my head and think, write, thoughs unthinkable thoughts. when i would take it to the pond and write i would put leaves in it or smear things in it. on one page is water, or blood, one page even had chocolate on it. lol. i wrote the word fuck everywhere in it. the day i was diagnosed with depression and anxiety i devoted a whole page to the word fuck and bashing the therapist. that doesn't upset me anymore. it used to bother me. what bothers me now is when people call me crazy or when they know i got to a shrink and they act weird about it. what hurts is when people look at me weird after they know. they don't treat me like Emily anymore. anyways.... i guess no need to dwell on it but i most likely will.
so look for more notebook dwelling to come.