LiveJournal, my old nemesis, we meet again!

I have not written in a while. Two slaps on the wrist for me. It's not as if I didn't have time during break. I had enough time to buy close to a dozen postcards, fill them out, and send them. Many seem to have since gotten lost. I wonder what happened to them. I know Goo and Betsy received them. Well, who else in the world matters but Goo and Betsy, anyway, right?So many people felt the need to complain today, that I jumped right on the bandwagon. Whenever someone said that they hurt, in any place on their body, I was honestly able to agree, and launch into detail. Whenever anyone said they were tired, I agreed, and proceded to vent. Whenever anyone said that they were confused by the human race, I, again, was able to empathize, and complete the rant with my own personal touch of frustration. I have some sort of gift. It's a highly marketable skill.I almost fell off the platform during rehearsal on multiple occassions. Given the lack of supports on that platform, it is a death trap: a law suit just waiting to happen. Maybe Robin will take pity on me while I'm getting stitched up at the hospital, and not require me to do nearly as much work for Social and Political Theater. It's a decent amount for a class, but considering that she knows I'm there every night late for the musical, she's insane. Purebred insanity!I had a long talk with myself last night. Yes, did I mention that I'm crazy? I sort out so many problems talking to myself. I know the motives behind so many of my flaws (and believe me, there are a LOT), and I need to take it to the next level: actually remedying the situations. I wish I had more strength. People tell me I'm strong, but what of it. So I can take pain with a good dose of cynicism and a smile. Great. What am I learning?You can only rely on people to be themselves, whatever is in their nature.Lately, I've been pondering more about suing the school system. My old public school, that is. I wish I had more solid proof, because as of right now, it's my word against theirs. I didn't document anything. I wish I did. I want to take an action, to tell them that what happened to me was horrible, and I don't want it to happen to anyone else. The major obstacle is that I'm not quite sure what happened. That made sense. I'm still trying to distinguish from reality... and... well, I couldn't have made it up, but I managed to convince myself a long time ago that I did. They told me I did. Every day it haunts me. I try and go to sleep, and I see them circling around me, and it feels like knives are sinking in. I'd like to think of myself as a happy person, as a whole, but then there are times that I want to scream. I want to scream and wipe away their burning spit, and their sharp kicks, and their blunt fists, and their caustic words, and heal my bruises and broken bones, and it all swirls together.... and I want to scream so that the whole world can hear me. "Come on, guys... she's obviously making it up." Why would they walk out on me? Instead, I smile. I smile because I didn't succumb, because I made it out alive. So I've proved to myself that I can handle it, but I have not influenced anyone else. My plight has not caused any inspiration. It is silent, fallen on deaf ears. I want to bury the pain forever, but there's something inside me that won't let me dig the grave. Something keeps it at the surface.She could have helped me find out the root of this "something."I miss her so much. She still had so much she could have taught me. Yes, well, while I'm ranting about public school, I might as well talk about my mother, again. I watched the HBO broadcast of "W;t" last week, about a woman with terminal stage 4 ovarian cancer. I can't remember the last time I cried through a movie. It was all real, and then it came so fast. Cease treatment. Wheelchair. Hospice. Morphine. DNR.She held me so tight that evening, and gently kissed me, thereby consuming all of the energy she had left. I never wanted to leave.My mind is brimming full of vivid images, without the words to articulate them.I sat in my room last night, for hours, and played bad new age music. I'm not a fan, but it was something we played while my mother was in a coma. She used to listen to piano solos, that sort of thing. My aunt suggested that we play my mother some music while she was in a coma, so we turned on the stereo... and Faur?'s Requium played. Watching someone die is, to say the least, painful enough, without the need for requiums, so we switched over to some optimstic "follow the sacred path" new age piano solos. Some of it is actually beautiful. Perhaps I just think that because it was hers.I have a thousand thoughts all jumbled in my head, and no medium for which to extract them.I want to help people, to help them overcome adversity. Perhaps that seems overly ambitious, or that I have no real experience, but I want to be able to do what my mother did. To have the dicipline and dedication to first work on her own imperfections, and then help others. Perhaps that is why I hang out with small children so often (my kids!). They are young and impressionable, and I'm able to help them grow into wonderful people. My three-year-olds don't have a great deal of adversity to deal with, but perhaps I can branch out into other groups. Adversity... that's going to be my big college campaign: while the rest of your three-sport senior class presidents were busy perfecting their 3-minute mile, I was overcoming adversity. I stuck with my education through horrible times, so bad that I was faced with no other option but to leave, through illness, of my own and of my mother's, and losing my best friend and hero... it's a movie-of-the-week sort of story - it starts out with lush benefits and the fanastic life of the middle and upper-middle class, falling apart on one day. Two, actually. I can pinpoint the dates: 15 October, 1997, and 5 February, 1998. The 15th of October wasn't too terrible, but it certainly changed my life, and the 5th in an even more negative way, or positive, as the case may be. I could have suffered through years of indifference and impartiality, but instead, through the "good fortune" of abuse, I was granted leave to go to a better place, where I for the first time since 3rd grade found friends who truly cared about me, and who stuck by me. It's a warring decision, whether all the pain and permanent scarring was worth it, but I think, ultimately, it was.I was busy learning about life.Now, I have to convince myself that it's the college's loss when they reject me. "Yeah, you and your adversity. Who cares about what you struggled with, when I can have the 4.0 student from New York with a huge list of credentials." It's much easier to achieve when you don't have such monumental obstacles in your way, but lots I can do about it now. It's not as if I have an inner-city minority kid story. Those sorts of stories they accept - mine is much more along the vein of "poor little rich girl." Oy.Tomorrow, I am going to put aside my masks, and be myself. It was something I was commended for at public school -- being myself. It's something that I still do, but too often, I hide behind a facade of cynicism. I AM NOT AFRAID TO LIVE. I AM NOT AFRAID TO DIE. So, then, what am I afraid of?~JennSo much for coherency. Another one of my infamous LiveNovel rants. Well, tomorrow is a new day!