I have found another part about myself that I hate. Yes, it turns out that it is possible. After discovering millions of flaws in myself, I thought there couldn’t have been anymore.
I have a feeling that whenever I say things like ‘What could be worse than this,’ or ‘I’ve hit rock bottom’, my brain seems to determine this as a challenge.
THIS IS NOT A GAME BRAIN! I DON’T WANT TO FEEL EVEN MORE INSECURE ABOUT MYSELF, I’M A NUTJOB ALREADY!!
So I’ve figured out something else about myself.
I develop attachments to the simplest, stupidest things.
About a few months ago, I nearly had a panic attack when I was deciding to change my radio from 92.9 to 99.3, more commonly known as Triple J. You see, my radio is difficult to change stations on, and if I chose to change my radio station, it would probably stay on that station for the rest of that radio’s existence. And I was freaking out about it. And it was a radio station!
And for all you imaginary 92.9 fans who are asking, I got sick of Nicki Minaj and songs with horrible meanings. Yes, I’m looking at you Miley Cyrus, and you Robin Thicke.
I also tend to be frightened when something happens to Daniel. Yes, the same Daniel who teases and picks on me whenever he has the chance. Because I’ve also gotten attached to him. He’s a friend, and he protects me.
And I shouldn’t get attached to him because he’s a part of my head which isn’t real, and my doctors are splitting hairs over getting rid of him.
I can imagine what you’re thinking, nonexistent reader. Why am I only just noticing this behaviour of mine?
I believe it happened because of a painting I had done. Well, it brought about the realisation.
A few months ago, we were painting abstract self portraits in Art, and mine actually won a prize, much to my astonishment. I was a better drawer than a painter, and the fact that I had won something for that painting was surprising in itself.
So today, I found out from my art teacher that someone wanted to buy my painting, and to think about if I wanted to sell it.
As I am incapable of expressing emotion properly, my only reaction was, “Oh, wow, okay.” On the inside, I felt everything spinning out of whack.
I was carrying my canvas outside when I saw Daniel waiting for me. He was pumped. “That,” he told me, “is wicked. Someone wanted to buy your work, that’s incredible!”
I just smiled tiredly.
Then Daniel noticed I hadn’t said anything. “Are you going to sell it?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted.
There was a story behind the painting. It probably wouldn’t make much sense without seeing it, but I’m a bit reluctant about letting it out on the Internet, especially when I’m considering selling it. But I’ll describe it as best as I can.
I am not in a good state of mind. In the slightest. Nor was I when I was painting my picture. I don’t know if I ever will be again, (yes, that’s right, I used to be sane). But I can’t let people know that, otherwise I can’t be anything more than the ‘mental girl’. So I appear calm on the outside. I had used green in the background, and for my eyes, and I painted my hair a pretty blue. Calm colours, nice colours, they remind me of a meadow by a lake. I’ve also painted my clothing red, not bright red, just a muted, pretty colour. It doesn’t get much attention.
My face on the other hand, is bright yellow and orange, like a flame. I always feel like I’m burning up on the inside, the pain is bright and vibrant, and it hurts.
It’s not a good feeling.
I ask Daniel now. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”
“Somewhat. But do you?”
I frown, and shake my head at his logic. “I feel like it’s too emotional,” I said slowly. “And too personal. I mean, it means something to me, about myself, and it’s not a very nice part about myself. It’s like giving away a secret, and for someone else to have that secret?”
“What do you know about secrets?”
I make a face. “Enough to know that it’s a bitch.”
He chuckles. “Silly Cat. A person only has a secret if they understand it completely. This person won’t know the truth unless you give it to them.”
“Then I’m selling a lie.”
He cracks up. “You are an idiot.”
“I believe that’s been established.”
He sighs. “What are you upset about? You could sell a painting, what’s wrong with that?”
I shake my head. “It just feels almost like I’m telling them about what’s really happening in my head.”
“Cat Louise Madigan,” Daniel says. “Will you remember this painting for the rest of your life?”
“I’m not sure,” I said slowly. “I could feel differently tomorrow about it, and I might want to sell the painting. On the other hand, what if I sell it and I’ll always want it?”
“Now you’re overthinking this,” Daniel said. Then he starts calling out “RED ALERT, RED ALERT! OVERTHINKING IN PROGRESS! INITIATE DISTRACTION!”
I hit him over his head with a book. “Better?” he asked.
“Much, thank you.”
Daniel lies back. “Ask your teacher more about it,” he says. “Don’t give it away practically for free, if it’s so precious. How much would you sell a secret?”
I actually don’t know. Here I am, writing up our conversation for millions of nonexistent readers to see, and I’m worrying about an implied message in a painting. “You’re right, I am an idiot,” I said.
He rolls his eyes. When I look back up, he’s gone. And I feel sad.
Damn you Daniel.