After calling my mother out for something stupid, I’ve been refusing to answer calls from her or my father, and am now closed in my room, unreasonably depressed and hating myself, not speaking to anyone.
I’ve been asking myself the exact same question. Why am I acting so sophomoric over something so meaningless? I mean, sure, Mom didn’t tell me my cousin’s dog was being put down, but that’s not a big deal.
My best guess? After injecting myself into more dramatic fandoms, I am once again trapped inside that block of helpless depression when I’m away from it. Feeling so down, but so calm. It’s, as far as I can tell, a battle between the practical and dramatic sides of my personality. The dramatic side wants to sit outside in the moonlight and cry herself senseless, dancing to music only she can hear. The practical side finds all of that beyond ridiculous. She’s angrily trying to snap me out of it, putting on a stoic face and wondering what the heck is wrong with me this time.
I think my drama queen self feels bored by the lack of dramatic moments in her life. I have parents and a sister who love me. We’re not perfect, sure, but we get by. I have good friends. The important people in my life are alive. I haven’t been significantly traumatized. All I have is my string of tiny little traumas, and the drama queen is desperately searching for the tragic beauty in each of them, dwelling on it over and over again, until the memories are beyond worn out, and fabricated almost past recognition. When these traumas still don’t add up to her expectations, she supplements them with fiction. I love a character with a tragic backstory more than almost anything, after all.
Fiction, I guess, is my refuge. I get so bored with the complacency of my everyday life, even though I’ve no desire to change it, that I feel the need to fabricate it or find it elsewhere. Nothing can make me feel quite as acutely as a well-written book. The colors sharpen, past the gray drudgery of the life I lead.
I’m too sensitive. My sister wasn’t trying to insult me with all those things she said. She was calling it as she saw it—and she saw well. I am a drama queen. I can see it. But that’s the reflection that keeps my shying away from the mirror.