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.