Running With Scissors - one of the greatest, most inspirational movies I've ever seen!  I only waited as long as I have to watch it because when my friend told me she'd seen it, she said it wasn't that great.  I believed her, took her word over personal experience (as I am so often want to do), instead of watching and judging for myself.

That's one of my problems - I listen to other people and care what they think.  I shouldn't.  I really shouldn't.  And sometimes I don't.  And I like when I don't, because then I am carefree and I feel good about myself.  I don't have to worry that the people I'm staying with think I'm some sort of crazy freak that needs to be medicated because I've created my own "mental" friends out of sheer boredom.  That I'm weird because I talk to inanimate objects or I get into a horror movie kick (which is funny, because the only reason I ever really got into horror was because my friend was into it.  She had a movie marathon for her birthday and she liked it, and so did the others.  So I guessed I liked it.)

Really, though, I've found very few horror movies that I actually like.  Silences of the Lambs was pretty good.  And Red Dragon. Every now and then I find a good one.  I like the psychological thriller  type best.  Maybe because it deals with the most basic parts of the human psyche.  Or maybe I'm overanalyzing things again.

I finally found my way out to California.  It was amazing - beautiful and wonderful!  I felt peace there, the kind I don't think I've found anywhere else. (Granted, I didn't "get my feet wet" until the last day I was there, where I discovered that the ocean is a scary thing. My heart was pounding in my chest so rapidly.  The waves would come up, sometimes nowhere near brushing my toes, other times coming up past my knees, and each time I wanted to turn and run and get as far away as possible, but I didn't I turned and laughed and ran right back.  But the waves were what I was scared of, scared that they would reach out and pull me out to sea, never let go and hold onto me forever. I didn't like the fear I felt; it made my blood run cold.)

I left Chiefland, FL at 10 AM on June 23, 2007, arrived in Santa Ana, CA a little after 7 PM on June 25.  I left on July 12.  Didn't tell anybody.  I arrived here in Clearwater Sunday, after being delayed for several hours in Atlanta, GA.  I was here at 2 PM - I was supposed to be here by 8 in the morning.

I was told by my doctors that I was supposed to find the health department in Newport, and resume my appointments and whatnot.  But Newport doesn't have a health department.  So I lowered my Depakote intake to once a day, sometimes none (yes, I had control of the pills, and was trusted to take them as directed, and did so, until I started running low.  Now I have three left - as I have for the past two weeks or so, and still need to go to the health department here).

I moved back in with Melissa, sharing a room now and sleeping on a cot.  We still haven't gotten the trailers moved around, but within the next month we should probably be moved. 

The first week I was here I was already working - at All About Puppies.  I'm part of the clean-up crew, work four hours, four or five days a week.  It's a nice start, making seven-fifty an hour, paid weekly.  The best part is I get to play with the puppies, and animals always make me happier.

We recently went to the library, too.  I got several books that would have been looked down upon had I been staying where I was.  Teenage Wasteland: Suburbia's Dead End Kids; Seen and Heard: Teenagers Talk About Their Lives; The Anxiety Book; On The Fringe.

Personally, I like books that TALK about what I've been through, what I haven't been through.  Things similar to that. While I was reading 101 Alternatives to Suicide for Teens, Freaks and Other Outlaws, I was told that I shouldn't be reading that because by reading about suicide (and all things related to depression and the like), I would constantly think about it. 

But what people never understood - what they DON'T UNDERSTAND - is that when I read about this stuff that happens in daily life to so many people, I don't feel depressed about it, I don't want to go cut my wrists or OD on pills, get drunk and die.  I don't want to do that.

Reading these books makes me feel better about myself, that I'm not alone, that there could be worse things than what I've been dealing with, what I AM dealing with.  It gives me a sense of hope friends and family can't give, because these stories come from experience.

Reading these books that so many people in my life have condemned (which makes me feel worse, because it's like they're condemning me, which is just plain stupid, because you don't condemn the ones you "love"), inspires me to write about my own stories and adventures through life, inspires me to help people like me, want to help kids who never had help before, who need help because people won't listen.

There's something really wrong with this world when a troubled kid - NO, ANYONE - can be called a freak by being him- or herself and actually feel bad about it.  Or any other derogatory name for that matter.  It's stupid.  I've been called so many things, I'm not sure who to believe anymore. If I'm "smart and cute" or just some "stupid freak".

I was called stupid because I didn't remember where a box of books went that four of us packed up two months prior.  No one else could remember, but I was called stupid.  I'm not even sure if I was ever told where they went in the first place!  (How's that for a boost of low self-esteem?)

I write a lot for frustration, and a lot of times when I'm writing the truth, I leave out a lot of details, especially if they've happened a few months past, and I'm not clear if I've already written them down or not.  No one really reads what I write anyway, so I never really thought it mattered.  Evidently it does.

Which is stupid, because if the only people who are going to read it already know what happened, then they don't need to hear it again.

I know I act naive a lot, especially when I'm in a really good mood, and I act rather childish.  But I'm full of smiles (usually), and kind of bouncy. I also evidently act "stupid". 

A friend of mine wrote something on her DeviantArt account, called "Random Acts of Giddiness".  I can't help but fully agree with her.

"Dance! I tell you!
Scream: Yes I talk to myself!
Play Uke/Seme!
Kiss A Random Stranger!
Sing TMNT,
Know Only Half The Words!
Glomp A Friend!
Run Around!
Laugh Your head off during class and
Don't you dare stop!

Live, Laugh, Love, And the World will feel Brighter

This I Promise."

The world does feel brighter, I do feel better, and anyone who wants me more mentally unstable than I already am, more unlike me and more "normal", more "mainstream", can just kiss my ass and fuck off.  (Yes, I said it.)

Conforming is what brings people over the edge.  Harsh words, harsh actions.  Misunderstandings, misconclusions, misjudgement.  People don't speak their minds because they're scared of something, of getting hurt - emotionally, physically.  I've stayed silent my whole life, and I ended up getting hurt badly - I can't trust people, and I lie about myself.  My automatic answer to "How Are You?" and "Are You Okay?" is "Fine." or "Nothing's wrong."  Even if I had cancer or was dying, I'd probably still say the same thing.

My silence is breaking.  I've grown up observing people, sitting in the back and watching, learning.  I think it's about time I step up and SPEAK UP.

So BITE.  ME.

(See, those books encourage me to speak my mind.  I think it's really helping. I'm finally expressing my "normalcy".  Isn't this what normal teenagers do?  Bitch back, right?  Well, here it is.)