Am I a girl with daddy issues? I think I might be. I've been raised as an investment, and if what I do isn't approved of then I completely lose heart. But I'm not that easy-- I lashed out, not just at myself, but at my dad, too. I have this theory that everything wrong with my family will be fixed once my dad is happy. Right now, he's convinced that he's happy, but he secretly hates himself and he lashes out at everyone around him because of it (not unlike me). Once he can solve his own problems, all of the problems in our family will go away.

I don't know if that's true, or if that's just wishful thinking. It's equally possible that I'm the source of all the problems in the family. At least, that's probably what he would say. I certainly was a problem as a child.

He hated me then. When I was 15, we got into a gigantic fight because I wanted to visit my friend, who was in the hospital, and he refused to drive me. The football game was on. I was furious and I yelled at him. I'm sure I said terrible things. He completely lost his temper and he started screaming at me. We were the only two in the house, so he could yell really, really loud. His whole face turned bright red and I could barely understand the words he was saying-- I didn't want to understand the words he was saying. I ran away. Upstairs, to the loft. He chased me, still yelling. Cornered me by the desk and grabbed me by the shoulders, thrusting his face into mine and spitting all over me. He's shaking me back and forth, yelling about what a horrible person I am and how everyone at school thinks I'm so great and nobody knows who I really am. He made me write two letters, one to my headmaster, one to my mother, telling them what an awful person I am, even though they believe I'm really good.

I put one letter on my mom's side of the bed. She still has it in her nightstand. The other one, my dad took. I don't know if he ever sent it.

He told me he finally understood why I have no friends. It felt like a scene in slow motion- I felt it hit me in slow motion. The words reverberated around in my skull. Bouncing through me in shock waves and making me recoil. I felt myself crumble inside. I felt my face crumble on the outside. I wasn't strong any more. There wasn't anything left to say to him. The tears were coming fast, but I felt I had to stay there, make him see for just a second what he had actually done- if he was capable of seeing that. "That was a horrible thing to say," I told him. The tears started to fall down my face, I couldn't stop them, so I left before the rest of me crumbled and there wasn't anything left.

I've been lying around all weekend. It feels like life is pressing down on my shoulders, so hard I can't even sit up. I haven't done much, except make margaritas and watch Taylor Swift on Saturday Night Live. She wasn't that funny, but better than Ben Affleck. Right now, I'm supposed to be typing my screenplay. I have two hours to write ten pages. That's about... 12 minutes a page. Impossible. It's my fault. I had all weekend. I guess I could stay up all night. It's not normally like this. Normally, I'm really good about writing things. They flow from me. Now, it's like pulling teeth. I wrench ideas from my head, chuck them onto the page, and regret the fact they're all blood stained and awkward later.

Actually, that's less than 12 minutes a page since I'm wasting my time writing here.

I went to the dog park today. Sometimes it makes me feel better to watch them run and bounce around, but it just made me wish I had a dog.

All I can think about right now, the past few days, is how alone I'm going to be when Paul leaves. He's leaving, in a year. A YEAR. Even I know how stupid that sounds. He's graduating and going away to graduate school, or off teaching in France. It makes me want to die inside.

Luckily, it is 7:22 on a Sunday. But, that is no excuse. I have been not-calling-them for over a week now. It took me two months just to bother to take five minutes to look up insurance-friendly psychologists in my area. It sickens me that it has taken me so long.

Paul tells me that I have defined myself as depressed. Can someone do that to themselves? But it's kind of true, isn't it? I mean, I can tell myself I "don't have energy" but how much energy does it really take to pick up a phone and dial a number?

Paul is a "cognitive behaviorist" meaning that he tells me to "be happy" and expects me to be. It's very annoying. The theory is, if you do what makes you happy, then you will be happy. For minor cases of depression, that is all it takes. From there, more therapy can be done. Paul doesn't take me seriously. He's convinced that it really will just take me "trying" to be happy. I can see it on his face every time I start to cry, every time I try to talk to him-- it crushes me. How can people be so unsympathetic? But then, I'm the one not calling the psychologist. I'm the one not helping myself. So, it seems hard to hate him for it.

What does it mean to "make onself happy?" How can we ever really know in advance what will make us happy? I'm unhappy here. So, I've been thinking about something that might solve that problem, graduating early. But will that really do anything, or just open up a whole different can of worms?

Ugh. It's depressing to think that the time that should be the "best time of my life!" is really not... But, I have enough credits to graduate a semester early. This would leave me with a semester to do whatever I want. But... it would also mean I would have a semester shorter than the "typical" college experience. Am I cheating myself? Would this be letting my depressive tendencies get the better of me, and in fact be setting myself up for spiraling further out of control?

Everyone needs someone to tell the truth. The random internet void is my silent confessor.

I'm trying not to kill myself tonight. I've been thinking about it for a while now, and not really doing anything. God, I don't know. At least since school started. So, a month, maybe. It's weird, though. Classes aren't that bad-- I think they're interesting. Not too stressful. I'm doing my best not to be stressed. I'm taking a yoga class, I'm trying.... I've been trying to be happy for years. I'm sick of trying.

And, I hate sex. Who hates sex? Seriously. I didn't used to. That's the weird thing. I used to be the "guy" in the relationship--always pushing for sex, always into it, always wanting to be closer. Then one day-- I don't know when-- it all shut off. I don't like it anymore.

My poor boyfriend. I told him today that he should find someone else. His name, let's pretend his name is Paul. He could be a Paul. He loves me. I don't know why, but I find it highly suspect. He's suffering. Trying to be the perfect boyfriend. Trying not to care that I don't want to have sex. Sometimes it seems like everyone's trying so hard it seems incredibly that nothing ever changes.

He pushed me on it tonight. We were walking out of the pizza place and he was going off to work. He was annoyed because he hit on me today and I pretended not to understand him. He's hurt. I'm a cruel person. I don't even know why I'm cruel. "I'm your boyfriend, Emily" He said to me. Not in a threatening way, but in a "you should be able to trust me--I'm the person you're supposed to want to have sex with" sort of way. "I just wanted to explore you sexually." He talks like that sometimes. He says it cute-like, as if the explicitness makes it sweet. I shuddered and turned away. I couldn't help it, but he was really hurt. Then, he tried to push me on that-- why it was so disgusting. But I couldn't answer him. WHY IS IT SO DISGUSTING TO ME? There's nothing wrong with him. He's a cute guy. It's not really him that disgusts me, it's me. The image of ME, there, on the bed--spread.... It's just... ugh.

I came home fighting off tears. Storm upstairs and shut myself in my room. I live in a house with six other people. None of them noticed me. I'm not really close to any of them except Paul. "I need to just do it" I tell myself as I shut the door, "I need to just get it over with." But I told myself I'd write the blog first.

The truth is, I don't really want to kill myself. I mean, I do in that it is a solution to everything, but it is not the preferred solution. I would prefer a pill. Wouldn't it be a great if the doctor could hand me a pill and say, take this-- everything in your life will be happy? Or, not even everything. Maybe just-- take this, you will have the energy to make happy things in your life and the self-confidence to persevere through the unhappy ones. Or even, not a pill. Better than that-- I wish I could just wake up one day and my life was completely different. I don't live in a crappy house with seven other people who only know me as their roommate's girlfriend. I'm not a junior in college, but out of school. I have a job-- I'm a writer. I HAVE FRIENDS. Wouldn't it be great if other people weren't complete pricks? That's the bitterness talking. The truth is, and I know it, other people are great. They just don't think I am.

Anyways, I'm a writer at heart. So, writing a blog to get through a suicidal breakdown seems to make sense. Sometimes it feels like writing is the only thing that makes sense. One day I'm going to go off and be a big-shot screenwriter. I know I can do it. Kind of weird that I'm convinced no one in the world gives a crap about me, but I have enough ego to believe that I can write movies everyone else will be thrilled to watch. I can do it though. I'm working on my first one now. Writing. It's the only thing that's going to get me through this.