frustration

how many more times will i sit down at my computer to generate my million-and-four ideas into decent writing and come out with absolutely nothing? it eats away at me, like guilt-roaches crawling around in my guts and nibbling away at my stomach lining. 

writing used to be my one passion. i used to be able to entertain myself for hours just scribbling intense scenes all over every sheet of paper available to me. they didn't have to attach to a story. they just existed by themselves, simply because i HAD to write them down, flesh the pictures in my head into some form of existence.

now i'm dried up and fruitless. it's as if my writing womb has suddenly been stricken barren. and it kills me. 

i want the passion back. i'll have absolutely nothing to live for if i don't feel passionate about something again. lately all i feel is bored or angry and i hate it.

except for this morning. i don't know why, but listening to Paramore and walking briskly in my P.E. class, i was suddenly overcome with a giddy, shivery feeling that made me want to cry out for no reason. it lingered briefly and then faded away. i don't know why, but for just a few random seconds, i felt happy for the first time in a while. 

i feel like i'm waiting for something that's taking too long to get here. i'm waiting for Tom to get here or i'm waiting to escape to England or i'm waiting for Walgreens to call me back or i'm waiting until the house is sold. only then will my life begin. i hate waiting like this. it just makes me feel like i'm making excuses.

i'm just so angry. impatient. stagnant. bored. unhappy. STILL. i'm standing as still as i was before, and i'm screaming into silence. and the longer i stand, waiting, the more trapped i feel. there are days when i think that if i don't get out (REALLY get out) this year, i'll never leave. that terrifies me. 

i feel useless and lazy and claustrophobic. i'm suffocating and no one understands why. i keep telling myself to be a grownup and stop thinking so selfishly. i keep suppressing how much my mother is hurting me because i don't want to appear ungrateful or immature. i've silently pushed my wants to the back in order to take responsibility for things i didn't anticipate. i won't admit to Cameron that i was never in love with him because i can't bring myself to be that mean, so i continue to soak up all the pain he constantly hurls at me. there are times when i suddenly snap awake out of my fantasies and realize that i might be alone forever.

everything just keeps building up, little bubbles of acid that keep getting injected into my bloodstream and burning my veins away. and i'm not saying anything. i'm not releasing it. i'm just letting it burn. 

i'll surely die from this.