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jane
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nobody called me today. it might sound conceited or contrived, but it seemed significant today. and the anxiety is eating me up inside, not the stomach anymore, because i have pills for that now, but it itches along my skin, pressing on my lungs and clamping my brain. i read a bunch of people's last words today and i thought about what mine might be and how sad it is that someone probably said them already. it's practically impossible to do anything original these days, even if people think its original. and if that's really true then there's no reason to live, right? because everything i do has been done, i have nothing to contribute. and that gets me to thinking - is there somebody out there that looks exactly like me? i mean there are 6 billion people on earth right now, right? so that plus the number of people who have lived on this earth ever, that's a lot of people. and theres a limited number of combinations of facial features and shapes of facial features, so there is or has been another me out there. and is she thinking the same things? is she thinking, i've got my mother's nose, my father's eyes? did she fall in love too young, and did she have the same anxiety as me, the same chemical imbalances? i read this thing about suicide, how when you're suicidal, everything sort of comes down to it: missed the bus, might as well end it all - that kind of thing. and i've been feeling that way, like i had this paper due two days ago, and for some reason i haven't even started, i just sat around all day anxiously eating the chocolate from valentine's day. and everything else. because i keep thinking, i can't write this paper, i'm going to fail the class, i'm going to flunk out or drop out of college, i'm going to die poor and lonely, i might as well kill myself now. i can't really get these thoughts out of my head. it reminds me of the whole virginia woolf thing, or what i know about it at least, how she couldn't stop hearing the voices in her head. i don't hear voices or anything, but i'm being tugged and pushed around by myself. my brain is like a mosh pit, i guess. i can feel the anxiety traveling through my nervous system, no wonder they call it that. i guess its what those early psychiatrists would call "hysterics," its kind of uncategorizable. or is it? does anybody else feel like this? why doesn't anybody ever talk about it? i guess all these blather people write about it, but for some reason this seems more serious? why do i have so much trouble taking other people's issues seriously? why do i have so much trouble taking my issues seriously? is therapy working? have i really made progress? all she does is sit and listen, and i feel like god, i would do that for $100 per 45 minutes. like, all she does is sit and listen to me whine. does doubting therapy make it not work? i mean, if it is related to the so-called placebo effect then doubting it would negate going in the first place, right? aah maybe i should just move back home.
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050220
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