The test of a first-rate intelligence...

F. Scott Fitzgerald claims in his essay "The Crack Up" that the "test of a first-rate intelligence is the ability to hold two opposed ideas in the mind at the same time and still retain the ability to function." This, I think, is the answer I've been looking for all along.

I've had two opposing ideas in my mind for...centuries, if I'd lived that long. But the ability to function? Must be missing on me. So, the answer to how all this got to be what it is? That I really am as stupid as has been suggested so determinedly throughout my life.

I'm disappointed. But this realization doesn't matter much because the point of writing everything down everyday is to have more resources from which to take in determining just how to function under opposing perceptions.

Things that stick out to me from today:

>I skipped my 5th class of the week. And it's the first week of the semester.
>I worked 3 excrutiating hours at the KSAC, during which I barely moved..but skyped with my sister and ate a feast, as I hadn't eaten since yesterday's lunch. I updated her on anything new with this new fiasco, but there wasn't much new so mostly we just sat there silently, each playing Bubble Spinner addictingly. She eventually got bored and went to nap. I wrote the blog preceding this one.
>Cleaned and showered. Jake came home early, unexpectantly. He cried, so did I, because we talked. He asked me if I had already decided......I hadn't. There was some yelling. I called him selfish. Told him that was at the root of this. He came in to my room and asked me a question meant for one-on-one, but Seth was standing off to the side pretending not to be noticed, and Jake talked on as if he wasn't there. I threw laundry when he left.
>Jake came back in, pulled me out of the room, cried some more, so did I, and held my hands. And asked me what to do: fight for me or let me go. I told him that, yet again, he was asking me how to love me. But I don't want to be asked how...I just want to be loved. He said he'd get back to me with an answer.
>I threw more laundry.
>People came over. Lots of them. Too many of them. And Conan talked to much and asked too much and pried and judged. Said he likes me because I'm a "clever son-of-a-bitch" and because I see to the heart of him and because he's interested in me due to this situation, that I'm a tough one to crack. He has his opinions, and he wanted me to explain my side of this twisted story, but I couldn't tell a stranger when even a participant cannot sometimes understand. So I just yelled at him instead. He liked it.
>I am sitting here trying to remember what runs away. Mostly I'm just falling asleep and wondering how much sadness tomorrow will let me feel.

Journaling makes you remember even things you wish you could forget.