I've begun to really look forward to my blog post once a week.

I think it's because I've been a journal keeper for nearly my entire life--until college.

College bombarded me with so much reading and writing, that I rarely am able to do it for personal reasons now. But don't get me wrong-- I love the literature I read and the things I learn about writing, and watching my writing progress-- I absolutely love school (minus Spanish) -- I am just saying that I rarely have the time to sit down and read or write for personal pleasure. 

Also, because I stopped going to my "counselor-in-training" therapist. I don't know why, but I always do this! I even told him that I always do this -- make it past a couple of appointments with therapists. My relationship with my psychiatrist is the longest I've had with a doctor since my pediatrician. And I'm very proud of myself too! 

I didn't stop going to him for any particular reason. He was young, African American, had a great personality, when I told him I was a stoner he didn't judge me, and I liked him. I felt like he was a bit young, unexperienced, but then again of course that's all true, and I was aware of it when I entered the program. Truthfully, I didn't have the $20 to pay for my appointment. He kept calling and calling and leaving voicemails and I kept ignoring and ignoring. I don't know why. Bill collectors call me a billion times a day, so I am used to ignoring every unknown number. But, something scares me about telling someone everything. No one knows everything. Except me, my memories, and my shit ton of journals.

More than anything, I want to tell someone everything. But I want to make them understand why I did it all first-- and I feel like I've begun to understand. I'm obsessed with learning about psychology--especially rated to mental illness. I've begun to understand....

And I don't know if I'm ready to share it with anyone else. 

Sex. Money. Death. Drugs. More drugs. Alcohol. Pot. More drugs. Sex. Sex. Sex. Parties. Manic.

Mixed in with a million people, a million complex relationships.

Don't worry, I've never hurt anyone. But death was all around me-- my mom, 25+ friends over the past eight years. Heroine. Russian roulette. Suicide. Murdered by his cellmate. Shot. 

So much fucking shit has happened. And I've grown so far away from it... 

Do I want to peel open that scab?

I'd rather just study it, understand it, heal it... on my own. Through my writing.

Or maybe I should see a therapist. Who knows, but I'm bound to find out sooner or later.