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I am not quite sure anymore what I'm looking for.

I mean, a place to belong?

But...what would that have to include coming to me...my screwed up being of everything I am...?

I mean, seriously, it'd be stupid like:
-People to understand me, but not push me, but help me when I need it, but leave me alone for their own sakes, but push through my walls when I can't see it.

-Feeling...better.



A bunch of nonsense. That's Julie, nonsense. Pointless. Replaceable.
Sometimes I wish, want, hope for that place. Like most angst-filled teens.

I need somewhere I can go ya know, some people to help, understand, be there for me.
Not make it all about themselves.

Parents: My life being their lives trying to be lived better.
Friends: Constantly on my back for stupid s**t (grades, lack of drugs/alcoholicness/pot). And then they have to blame everything on me. Use me as the last minute friend. And then..even better...expect me to be there for them at the darkest as they shun me in my own.

For both, it's got to be ALL about them.

And...ugh...all the while I am deteriating, slowly, quickly, quoting Hemmingway "Gradually, then suddenly". That's me. That's how it's going.

The images that pass in my head. The stress. The guilt. The pressure. The weight of the world, my parents' worlds, my friends' worlds, my future.

And does anyone notice? Does anyone care? Doesn't anyone see that I am barely keeping it together.

I'm a big FAKE! Hypocritically so! Those smiles are real! Those laughs are true! NOTHING! I'm a FAKE! I'm a phony with nothing and losing more, no matter the impossibility of the situation! The only way I am managing to function is school. School, online stuff (internet distractions).

It's bad. It's really bad.

I am trying to help people in their depressions...all the while I'm sinking in my own.

And no one knows. Except these blogs. These online journals that no one reads. My one journal at school, my one journal at home, the little summer journal, the glass in the closet... and yet none of it means anything.
I know I am putting it in writing, making it known to the world because I need the help, I can't say it vocally. I can't speak the truth. They won't care, they won't understand, they won't hear my screams, they won't feel my pain. They'll only see theirs.
Does it continue to be sick that I know that no one reads any of my journals and yet I write in them hoping someone will, not my normal group, that could help, that I want to help.
And yet still not want people to see?

Of course it's sick. I'm sick. I'm disgusting. I'm a defect on the face of quality and health. I'm a fad that's been outdated in the time frame of 17 years.

I'm disgusting. I'm selfish, complaining about in unread journals of my lostness when others are in worse cases. I'm horrible. I'm pathetic.

There's really no chance of me being...better.
I'm losing.
No one sees. My friends don't see! My parents pretend to try! It's all about them! THEM THEM THEM THEM THEM THEM THEM!
I can't get out! I'm trapped, in my self made bars of empathy for others and caged myself in with my own. They leave me, I'm replaceable. Easily, quickly, efficiently.
I'm disgusting. I'm pathetic. I see it, feel it, smell it, taste it, touch it, know it, understand it, hear it.

So lost, so messed up. So hurt, self-destructing, fake, lying, abandoned, ditched, broken.

I can't close my eyes for what I'll see, and I can't open my eyes, because I already know what I'll see. Damaged.

I'm disgusting.


And this is public, not read, not seen. And still hoping. Still pushing away. Still disgusting. Still pathetic. Still them.