Trufax.

One of the most annoying questions anyone could ever possibly ask me, is.. "Who are you?" Not like in the sense where the simple and most common reply would be just to say my name. But in the sense of, who am I as a person, what are my hobbies, and goals in life, my greatest fears and pet peeves; every single thing that could define me as a human being. Not just that, but a unique person. I hate it because I honestly have no idea. The idea of finding out actually kind of scares me. But here are a few things to start off with.

• I'm 23 years old.
• My dad named me after a movie; "Savannah Smiles" 
• My first word was "Momma."
• I'm not short, I'm funsized - 5'4.
• I have an older sister; she and I never got along as children, but she's honestly one of my best friends today; I'm extremely protective of her. She and I made a pinky promise in 2002, when I was 11, that we'd always be there for each other, and we would not suffer through our problems alone. 
• I was raised as Christian, and would go to Church pretty regularly, but changed my views when I was around 16. Now, I don't know exactly what to call myself, but I am pretty against religion in general. 
• I am shy, and extremely quiet. No one really knew what my voice sounded like when I was in school.
• I was bullied, badly, in school. I was constantly called fat, etc. 
• I was nearly arrested when I was 10 years old, because of an incident in school, at which time, I joked to my best friend that I was going to kill her for giving my phone number out. She got me in trouble for that, by stating that me, a ten year old girl that had never been in a fight or anything, would actually kill her... I wasn't arrested, but I did have to speak to police, write an affidavit, then go to court, and was on probation. Even the judge said that it was nonsense that I had to go through all of that.
• My last day of school, was my last (October of 2003) because I suffered a minor breakdown in the middle of class, after several guys had been bullying me. The principal said it was best for my mental health if I finished school at home and sought help with a shrink.
• My first pets were two cats, Midnight and Thomas.
• I had a pet chicken at age four/five, that would follow me around and I named her Goldilocks. :/
• My first love was this guy Michael... who in turn killed my self esteem, and told me that he couldn't be with me because I wasn't good enough, and because I smoked, because I was blonde, and because I had made a joke about wanting a baby (my cousin was pregnant at the time).
• I had an obsession with Sailor Moon, and my cousin Becky and I had our aunt actually make costumes for us. I was Sailor Mars. >.> Mhm.
• I fell when I was 2 years old, and my grandmother ended up having to actually get two rocks out of my forehead; still have the scars, up close.
• I'm really weird about food. I don't like eating. (no, I'm not anorexic)
• My favorite colors are Purple and Red.
• Though I don't like eating, there's always room for pickles. >.<
• I am very against fast food. It's disgusting in every sense.
• I am a huge supporter of human rights.
• I have a bucket list with around a hundred things on it, and I highly intend to do each and every one of them. :)
• I have high blood pressure, and low iron. 
• I'm manic depressive. I was diagnosed at 13.
• I accidentally cut my arm in May of 2002 - my mother had just gotten finished trying to tell my sister and I that our dad was a bad man and that we should go with her if/when she left, so I was upset and ran outside, and ran until I scraped my arm against a rusty nail. After that I thought I felt better: I became a cutter, at age 11.
• I nearly hit an artery in my thigh in 2009, after cutting myself. Needed stitches.
• I overdosed twice on pills.
• I don't sleep well, like ever.
• I'm very maternal.
• I wrote my first poem in November of 2002, as a joke speech for a story I was working on; my parents found it and thought it was good. 

I'm a Loser, baby. (Losing bits and pieces)

Well, as you've probably already figured out, I'm Savanna. I'm 8,410 days old. Math's fun, no? Anyway.. I've started so many different blogs over the years, I kind of gave up on it, because I didn't update it regularly, and it's annoying to me, for whatever reason, to have something, use it one day, go weeks without, then use it again, so I got rid of them. Why I'm giving it another try, I don't really know. I'm just in a really lovely mood at the moment, in which I feel like writing. The irony is, I SHOULD be working on this story project I've got going on. But all ideas escape me for that right now. Though still doing research for it (I'm a multi-tasker and a half) ... I dunno, maybe I'm not quite ready to start a story that I know that there's a distinct possibility of being published. Before, when I'd write stories, they were for my eyes only. I could work on them in my own time and never worry about the pressure of people wanting them to be finished. And I knew I'd never have to get them published if I didn't want. But this project is with my cousin... She's just as creative as I am, and I guess that kind of scares me. I mean not only is there pressure to get started, and finished, but there's pressure in knowing that this is gonna be good. I'm not usually optimistic about my own work but with the both of us working, and all of the research and thought we're really putting into it, it has real potential, I gotta say. It's exciting, just scary. But that's me, so often getting scared of the least little things. A nice example of this would be the short stories I wrote when I was thirteen years old. Around thirty of those buggers. But they were so dark, that when I started seeing a therapist, I was afraid someone would find them, and think I was horrible, and that I'd get into some real trouble. So what did I do? Burned them, the first chance I got. Looking back on it now, I think that the most they could have done with those stories I tried so hard to rid myself of, was to maybe diagnose me more quickly; to use in the diagnostic process, at least. So many people thought I was faking, but my depression shone through in my writings, without me even realizing it. Heh. I try so hard to not let that happen anymore. Truth of the matter is, I could write some pretty terrifying things if I'd allow myself to. Luckily I can't really write stories when I'm depressed, or in a weird mood... Ding ding ding. THAT's why I'm having trouble with the story. Blegh. I can't even describe how I'm feeling right this minute. Not exactly bad, no. Definitely not good, though. Lost in a Limbo-esque type state, I suppose. I've done so much thinking about the past tonight, it's ridiculous. And unfair... I don't like thinking about that. But...I've been scaring myself lately. Remembering things I'd forgotten about long ago. Stuff I guess I must have blocked out of my mind. Simple things, small, tiny meaningless things. Just the other day, my dad and I were talking about this annual festival that is held a few cities away... He mentioned it, and it was news to me, or so I thought. It seemed interesting so I asked him, "Since when is there anything like that around here?" ... He told me I'd been to it before. I had no recollection of this, whatsoever. :/ I asked him had I supposedly attended it. He said October of 2003. I thought and thought...and thought. Finally, I remembered, somewhat. I also realized that October of 2003 was when I had left school.. It was also my first visit with a psychiatrist. Though I had been seeing a therapist for a couple of weeks, the actual shrink visit was in October, the first day of this festival. That session with the shrink, was exceptionally horrible for me. She made me feel completely awful, instead of at least trying to come off as helpful and understanding. She flat out told me I was crazy. And said that if I didn't get help, I would definitely be locked up. I had felt sad for a long time before the Autumn of 2003. But it was only when I'd started a new school, and had suffered vast amounts of bullying on top of the general anxiety (social and otherwise), that I broke down, quite literally, and could no longer deal. So I left school, and started seeing a therapist, who was amazing. She understood me, and actually helped me. But then I had to see the psychiatrist, and it was a major set back for me. So bad that I suffered an anxiety attack, while IN her office. After leaving the hospital, my parents and I walked a few blocks over to where the festival was being held. I was a total zombie at the time, so I guess it isn't very surprising that I barely remember it. I'm very vague on things that happened around that time. It still hurts now though, that I somewhat remember these things, and the memories aren't vivid enough for me to do anything more than just slightly piece them together. I've also realized that I'm slowly losing more and more pieces of these puzzles that so define me. I can take some of it, like forgetting most of my school experience and the people therein. I can't, however, accept the fact that it took me awhile not long ago, to remember that my aunt had in fact died last year, and to remember when it happened, and to figure out how long it's been exactly. That isn't okay with me. I don't like that she's gone, what person would like that knowledge of knowing someone they were close to was dead? But it's a fact of life, there's no escaping it. And I guess it just feels like I've betrayed her in nearly forgetting her. And it's just a date... I really don't like my mind. Not just for not remembering things, but for this in general. What the hell is the point in this post? I don't even know.