I didn't do it.

I've been talking to my therapist a lot about how I blame myself often for things that aren't my fault. Like it's my fault the world seems to have a problem with my fat body. She says it's ingrained from having a dad who always went out of his way to make me feel like I ruined his life just by existing...and I can agree that probably is where it initially stemmed from.

But as I was leaving her office today, she said "Just for today, try pretending that NOTHING is your fault. Just try it."

Is it weird that it kinda makes me wanna rob a convenience store? Wouldn't be my fault, is all I'm saying.

The College Years.

So I spent most of Thursday night in the Emergency Room of St Rose Siena Hospital last week. It sucked. I went to bed and woke up with my heart beating about a million times a minute. I felt so fucking weird and out of sorts, tingly all over and like dizzy and just fucking weird. I thought FOR SURE, this was it. The most-anticipated, most-feared fatal heart attack that would lead to the oversize coffin and my dad standing over it saying things like "I told her all that pizza would kill her one day" and "You know, that coffin cost twice as much!" Not that he paid for it or anything.

Turns out it was just a panic attack. Like, outta nowhere. I don't get it. Why would I have my worst panic attack ever one week AFTER I start taking anti-anxiety medicine? Why would it come to me in my sleep? I don't remember feeling especially panicky or anything so I dunno what the fuck was up, but either way, I guess I'm glad I'm not dead and my dad gets to save those rants for another day.

Also, the doctor told me I was "very dehydrated." What in the fuck?? I feel like all I do all day is drink water and drink water and then drink more water. They gave me an IV which took FOUR attempts from two different nurses to get the dang needle in the right place. That one bitch was just not good at it. She kept saying "it's RIGHT THERE, I can SEE it!" then still not getting it. And she was leaving her failure needles in my arm while sticking in the next one, so at one time I had three fucking needles sticking outta my arm at the same time and I had to just look away and start humming the theme from Saved by the Bell because if I saw that stupid confused look on her face one more time, I would have punched it and there were way too many cops around.

You know, it says a lot about a person when she's sitting in a hospital room thinking she's on death's doorstep and her heart's on it's last string and yet, still, she wishes she had some Oreo's to pass the time. I dunno if there's any hope for me. Therapy...not working. Drugs...not working. Imaginary heart attacks...not working. I'm not sure what's left.

Oh well, back to the drawing board.