I feel like there is too much of me sometimes. I feel too intrusive to the space around me...too much. Somehow this has to be backwards. Saying I'm too much (physically and mentally and spiritually) is counter productive. It's like saying someone is too alive. I feel foreign to myself though. Every time I look at myself I catch something new that I didn't notice before, something I didn't like.

So from now on when I look at myself, if I must look at myself and see something I don't like, I'm going to make myself find something about me I do like. I have a good, strong body. I just disgust myself sometimes at how selfish I am. I feel like there are two of me, and they both hate each other and have different view points that are completely opposite. 

I feel like I'm walking around in a dream these past few days. I feel nervous and paranoid all the time. 

I've always wanted to live by the beach, on the beach. Every Christmas we would make the six hour trip to California to see my grandparents, and we would spend almost every day at the beach because there are no beaches in Arizona. Don't get me wrong...I love the desert, actually. The colors are gorgeous, and I dare anyone to find sunsets prettier than the ones I've seen behind the mountains there. But the sea stole my heart a long time ago. I think it was the sea. Or the sand, or maybe the sound of the sea, the smell, or the feeling of the water. Maybe it was feeding seagulls and finding eels with Spencer when I was four. Maybe it was nine years later, still very in love, bringing chinese food out in the sand, and playing tag in the shallow water with him while the other two watched.  I've finally realized I don't really care why I feel like I need to go back. I'm tired of spending all my time looking for answers to things. Answers just leave you feeling unsatisfied and empty. It's the questions that keep you searching and hopeful, I think.

When I was five years old I used to play with my babysitter's three year old daughter. I thought she was annoying, and I hated playing with her. One day she wouldn't stop crying about something, and I got upset. I made her lie on the ground and stacked pillows, toys, and stuffed animals on top of her until she stopped crying, or maybe it just got muffled out. I remember that I was trying to kill her. I wanted to see how long she could live without air. After what must have been about ten seconds I got scared and realized what I was doing and pushed the pillows and toys off of her. She was fine and just kept on crying, and got up and went to the kitchen for pretzels. I remember that now. 

I don't understand why I did that. It's not really a big deal, but I wonder why I did that. How can a child want to hurt someone like that?
Sometimes I wonder if it has to do with my brother having abused me a year earlier, if I was acting out from that.
I know she doesn't remember, at least I hope not. She probably didn't know what the hell I was doing anyway. I feel like apologizing.
I'm glad I didn't do that ever again.

I don't know what to say anymore, I just feel sick and want to be out in the sun and in the sand.