Christmas eve went surprisingly well. Judging by the day before, I was too afraid to even think about how it would be. That day was a complete disaster, as every part of the family was upset with someone else. I even cried uncontrollably, like weeps, which I don't do unless I feel I'm at a place where nothing can make things right again. It's funny, though, that my family, who can cause me such anguish, are also the ones who make me feel like everything is right again, if only for a while. I love that about them.
The days after have not been that great. There were two family parties I didn't attend, even though my dad was hosting them. I just can't handle people right now. I feel like a failure, and I can't go through more questions about school and my life. It hurts too much. I just don't want them to look at me. The last party I felt really bad about, and I sent my dad a text early morning asking whether he hated me. I know he'll always say he loves me, but I can't understand that. When I think about myself, all I feel is hate.
Right now I'm faced with a dilemma. I've been "invited" to a party on new years eve(today), but I don't know if I should go. It's something I've wanted to do, but not in this...state. Technically, I don't think it's an invitation if it's not the person hosting inviting you, but they couldn't kick me out. They just never think to invite me. But the thing is, I don't know whether I can go out. I always feel so miserable afterwards. I truly don't know if I can handle another period of serious depression. I need to hold on to some kind of happiness, however small and temporary it may be. Is it better to start the new year feeling miserable or nothing at all?
Shit, and then there's my birthday...
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Low point
I realize I haven't written anything for a while. To be honest, I just haven't felt much since last time. I feel numb. This is because I haven't done anything. If I don't go out and meet my fears, I don't have to be sad. I don't have to be anything. When I go out, I am a failure. I haven't succeeded in anything, and life is passing me by. I won't be able to go back to school with my absence, and really, what's the use of even trying again? It's too fucking depressing trying to finish my second year for the third time.
I don't see my body when I'm alone. It doesn't exist. I don't acknowledge it. If I lived alone, I probably wouldn't even shower. When I am faced with it, I feel horrible. But it is what it is because I ignore it like I ignore all my problems.
Where is my life going? I am heading straight to the grave. I joke to my parents that I'll probably never move out on my own, but be institutionalized instead. The joke is the closest to the truth I've gotten with my parents.
I had a meeting with a pscyhologist last tuesday. She seemed worried. She makes me promise I'll contact her if I feel like I might do something, but the truth is, I probably won't. She also makes me fill out something called BDI, or Beck Depression Inventory. I think I scored a 34, which I guess is a personal record. People always ask what's happened that makes me worse than I was before. Nothing happened, I was just in a situation where I couldn't suppress my life.
I feel like I should call someone right now. I'd like to call my dad, but it's the middle of the night and it's so close to christmas. I don't want to ruin the one time of the year when my parents are in the same room for more than one hour. My dad's been through so much, why do I have to break his heart? So I'll stay quiet. I owe him that.
I don't see my body when I'm alone. It doesn't exist. I don't acknowledge it. If I lived alone, I probably wouldn't even shower. When I am faced with it, I feel horrible. But it is what it is because I ignore it like I ignore all my problems.
Where is my life going? I am heading straight to the grave. I joke to my parents that I'll probably never move out on my own, but be institutionalized instead. The joke is the closest to the truth I've gotten with my parents.
I had a meeting with a pscyhologist last tuesday. She seemed worried. She makes me promise I'll contact her if I feel like I might do something, but the truth is, I probably won't. She also makes me fill out something called BDI, or Beck Depression Inventory. I think I scored a 34, which I guess is a personal record. People always ask what's happened that makes me worse than I was before. Nothing happened, I was just in a situation where I couldn't suppress my life.
I feel like I should call someone right now. I'd like to call my dad, but it's the middle of the night and it's so close to christmas. I don't want to ruin the one time of the year when my parents are in the same room for more than one hour. My dad's been through so much, why do I have to break his heart? So I'll stay quiet. I owe him that.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Unfortunate
I came very close to doing something...terminal last night. It wasn't because of the party itself, or my friends. Nothing has changed, I've just been reminded of the things I try so hard to suppress. It takes me a few days to recuperate.
Watching my friends' love lives flourish feels like a knife in the side. Of course I'm happy for them, but I feel like such a failure. And yes, I'm jealous. They've bared their souls and found someone who likes what they see. Personally, I haven't shown anyone the real me, because I don't think anyone could ever love me. So instead I disguise myself with stupid incessant joking. But now, not even do they not know me, I don't know me.
Watching my friends' love lives flourish feels like a knife in the side. Of course I'm happy for them, but I feel like such a failure. And yes, I'm jealous. They've bared their souls and found someone who likes what they see. Personally, I haven't shown anyone the real me, because I don't think anyone could ever love me. So instead I disguise myself with stupid incessant joking. But now, not even do they not know me, I don't know me.
Saturday, December 8, 2012
Truth
I feel like a clown. I thought I could pretend to be like them. Wrong. I was sad at the start of the night, and then again at the end. Who am I trying to kid? I try so hard to be carefree, I get burnt out. After all that pretending, he still wants her. And I still sit alone.
I never want to slash the knife more than when I've just seen all I can't have.
Oh, and I broke a beer bottle on my one good pair of shoes.
I never want to slash the knife more than when I've just seen all I can't have.
Oh, and I broke a beer bottle on my one good pair of shoes.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Mama do
Somehow my mother is simultaneously painfully festive and dreadfully depressing. Seasonal change means it's time for the traditional changing of curtains. From white to red, then purple, yellow, and then back to white. Whenever she does anything domestic, I try to stay away. It's too depressing watching her dust the same spot every week. Like I needed a reminder that everything is hopeless and there is no point of doing anything, because it won't last.
I tried talking with her. Since I am essentially a broken person, I rely on my parents for satisfying my social needs. If I want to see a movie? My dad. Need someone to talk to? Dad. But unfortunately he doesn't live with us, and he is less than welcome. It's actually really sad watching my mom hide in the washing room the few times he comes over.
This means that when I feel the need to share something, she is the natural choice. Why do I forget every time how much I end up regretting it? Usually that happens when she uses vulnerable information to mock/nag me. Or when I try to share something real, as I would have with my dad, were he there. It's hard to explain what she does, but I always feel betrayed.
Yes, I realize I make cynical remarks about a lot of things. That's just my humor, and incidentally, my sister's, too. We like being snarky, that's just what we do. In fact, that's the only time I really talk to my sister. We've had a serious conversation maybe three or four times, and we still didn't talk all that much. But this is who we are. We're damaged.
My mother, on the other hand, likes everything to be correct and cozy. She only likes humor no one could ever find offensive, and she would rather do small talk than have real conversations. But really, one can only talk about knitting quilts for so long. Or, that's what I thought. She's very good at the kind of conversations where I can't pay attention if I try, and there is nothing I can think of saying, so I only nod or say yes or no a couple of times. Really, before my parents split and I went to his family's gatherings without her, I had barely talked to any of my relatives. Really talk.
So, I am once again sitting at the table, asking what she thinks are unnecessary questions. "If you had to choose between being brilliant or being happy, what would you choose?" - Okay, that one was kind of stupid, since I already knew the answer. As I dream of making a difference, making a mark, she doesn't want to be seen at all. Literally, she even refuses to pose for pictures. "If you know what you know now, would you still have married dad?" - No answer, only objections. "Are you happy?" - This is a question my mother does not understand. When I was a kid and complained about being bored, she would say I had to get used to it, because "that's life". No wonder I get depressed.
But now she tells me that my talk makes her depressed. That she has gotten over her "depression period", but I'm making her feel worse. Nothing like ruining your parents' lives. Really, she tells me to expect a boring life, and I'm depressing her? That's almost insulting.
If my mother saw this, she would be horrified. Not of what I just wrote, but that other people might see it. This is what I'm working with, people.
I tried talking with her. Since I am essentially a broken person, I rely on my parents for satisfying my social needs. If I want to see a movie? My dad. Need someone to talk to? Dad. But unfortunately he doesn't live with us, and he is less than welcome. It's actually really sad watching my mom hide in the washing room the few times he comes over.
This means that when I feel the need to share something, she is the natural choice. Why do I forget every time how much I end up regretting it? Usually that happens when she uses vulnerable information to mock/nag me. Or when I try to share something real, as I would have with my dad, were he there. It's hard to explain what she does, but I always feel betrayed.
Yes, I realize I make cynical remarks about a lot of things. That's just my humor, and incidentally, my sister's, too. We like being snarky, that's just what we do. In fact, that's the only time I really talk to my sister. We've had a serious conversation maybe three or four times, and we still didn't talk all that much. But this is who we are. We're damaged.
My mother, on the other hand, likes everything to be correct and cozy. She only likes humor no one could ever find offensive, and she would rather do small talk than have real conversations. But really, one can only talk about knitting quilts for so long. Or, that's what I thought. She's very good at the kind of conversations where I can't pay attention if I try, and there is nothing I can think of saying, so I only nod or say yes or no a couple of times. Really, before my parents split and I went to his family's gatherings without her, I had barely talked to any of my relatives. Really talk.
So, I am once again sitting at the table, asking what she thinks are unnecessary questions. "If you had to choose between being brilliant or being happy, what would you choose?" - Okay, that one was kind of stupid, since I already knew the answer. As I dream of making a difference, making a mark, she doesn't want to be seen at all. Literally, she even refuses to pose for pictures. "If you know what you know now, would you still have married dad?" - No answer, only objections. "Are you happy?" - This is a question my mother does not understand. When I was a kid and complained about being bored, she would say I had to get used to it, because "that's life". No wonder I get depressed.
But now she tells me that my talk makes her depressed. That she has gotten over her "depression period", but I'm making her feel worse. Nothing like ruining your parents' lives. Really, she tells me to expect a boring life, and I'm depressing her? That's almost insulting.
If my mother saw this, she would be horrified. Not of what I just wrote, but that other people might see it. This is what I'm working with, people.
Friday, November 30, 2012
The Dark Path
Some days I just can't find anything worth waking up for. It's horribly hard just to admit that, because whenever the thought comes up in my head, I shove it as far away as possible. It's too dark a path to go down, and leads nowhere good. Most of the time I succeed at distracting myself enough to forget this sad fact, and...eliminate the feeling. Of course, most of the time is not all of the time. There's still the matter of those black holes where I continue downwards spiraling, and my life is in free fall.
Free fall is actually the perfect way to describe it. I am no longer standing on solid ground. But, really, did I ever? Haven't I always been this fucked up? It's hard to decipher my emotions as a child and now. They're the same, but surely they are also different? I am not the same person as then, but in a way I am. Everyone evolves from birth to adulthood, but something was put inside me as a child that was not a product of a child's development. What they put inside me, was much more adult than I was, these tearing emotions a child would not understand.
It's probably all very confusing to anyone else, but this realization has brought me closer to a truth I might need to know to move on.
Free fall is actually the perfect way to describe it. I am no longer standing on solid ground. But, really, did I ever? Haven't I always been this fucked up? It's hard to decipher my emotions as a child and now. They're the same, but surely they are also different? I am not the same person as then, but in a way I am. Everyone evolves from birth to adulthood, but something was put inside me as a child that was not a product of a child's development. What they put inside me, was much more adult than I was, these tearing emotions a child would not understand.
It's probably all very confusing to anyone else, but this realization has brought me closer to a truth I might need to know to move on.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Dreams
Sometimes I have these horribly vivid dreams. While my other dreams are pretty standard as far as dreams go, these few are like HD quality. What these high quality dreams have in common, is that in them, I break down in tears, sobbing. When I wake up, I find myself surprised that I am not actually crying. It takes a while to adjust to the fact that no information from the dream is real.
This dream was particularly gruesome. I dreamt that my cousin and her baby were murdered. Where this come from, I really don't know, but it was horrifying, as can be imagined. I don't remember much else, what I really remember, is how I was confused and broke down as I, for some reason, tried to find out who the killer was. The killer ended up being a stalker ex-boyfriend or something of the sort. Very typical crime plot. There were many inaccuracies in the dream, but of course, I noticed nothing of that while dreaming.
I actually find it quite embarrassing. I can't say exactly why I do, but I just feel silly dreaming something so unnecessary. I love these people, why do I torture myself like that? That is why I decided not to tell anyone. That is, after I told my mom, who is not the best person to tell these things. Bad decision.
But what does this mean? Besides the fact that I read and watch too much crime. How would I interpret these dreams? According to what I have read(with a simple google search) about dream interpretation, death symbolizes change. But there seems to be disagreements about whether that change can be good or bad. Maybe the fact that I only remember nightmares is also something that needs interpreting. Everyone else seems to have nice dreams where magical things happen, and they wake up happy. Mine are only nasty surprises and a general feeling of horror. It just seems unfair.
This dream was particularly gruesome. I dreamt that my cousin and her baby were murdered. Where this come from, I really don't know, but it was horrifying, as can be imagined. I don't remember much else, what I really remember, is how I was confused and broke down as I, for some reason, tried to find out who the killer was. The killer ended up being a stalker ex-boyfriend or something of the sort. Very typical crime plot. There were many inaccuracies in the dream, but of course, I noticed nothing of that while dreaming.
I actually find it quite embarrassing. I can't say exactly why I do, but I just feel silly dreaming something so unnecessary. I love these people, why do I torture myself like that? That is why I decided not to tell anyone. That is, after I told my mom, who is not the best person to tell these things. Bad decision.
But what does this mean? Besides the fact that I read and watch too much crime. How would I interpret these dreams? According to what I have read(with a simple google search) about dream interpretation, death symbolizes change. But there seems to be disagreements about whether that change can be good or bad. Maybe the fact that I only remember nightmares is also something that needs interpreting. Everyone else seems to have nice dreams where magical things happen, and they wake up happy. Mine are only nasty surprises and a general feeling of horror. It just seems unfair.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Reading Rainbow
As a recluse, your list of possible hobbies is not substantial. Reading is one of those hobbies that require little to no human interaction. As my life deteriorated, reading was basically all I did, beside eating, sleeping, and the occasional social media distraction. I would read multiple books a week, and I really felt I was learning, despite the fact that I hadn't been to school for weeks. At one point I borrowed books from three different libraries, which I would not recommend if you are anything like me.
But now even reading has become difficult. I started on three books over a week ago and I haven't gotten anywhere. It's very frustrating, if I can't even read anymore, what am I going to do? When I think about it, that may be why I started this blog. I wasn't functioning and I couldn't read to get my mind off it, so I tried something else. Maybe this will be better for me, as I can actually confront myself instead of blocking out all of these thoughts. A lot of my problems stem from me not talking about it in the first place.
So, yes. This is a good thing. I'll make it so.
But now even reading has become difficult. I started on three books over a week ago and I haven't gotten anywhere. It's very frustrating, if I can't even read anymore, what am I going to do? When I think about it, that may be why I started this blog. I wasn't functioning and I couldn't read to get my mind off it, so I tried something else. Maybe this will be better for me, as I can actually confront myself instead of blocking out all of these thoughts. A lot of my problems stem from me not talking about it in the first place.
So, yes. This is a good thing. I'll make it so.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Dreaming of another world
My dream for as long as I can remember has been to act. Where did this impossible dream come from? I would in truth be much happier if I could just accept that I was meant to be a wallflower, living a tedious life in a medium-sized town, with I job I barely tolerate, and wait to retire. But I can't. I won't. For the same reason I am still here trying to get healthy and be over with this disorder. I have to dream. To be honest, it's the only thing keeping me.
Acting. The opposite of what I have been doing most of my life. My disorder has kept me from ever putting myself out there, which is basically what acting is. It's safe to say I have little experience. But the few times I dared perform for others, it was exhilerating, I felt a confidence I've never felt in my life. Still, this doesn't mean I am actually good at it. In fact, my biggest fear is that when I finally have the courage to try, I am told that I am terrible and unteachable.
I used to think this dream was absurdly incongruous to my personality. Now I am not so sure. I mean, I have always wanted to be some other person. Who better to be an actor than someone who would rather be someone else? It may not be healthy, but I'm unhealthy as it is.
The trouble is, though, that where I live does not offer any way for me to explore this. To do this, I would have to move to another country, maybe even to the other side of the world. This terrifies me. I am not good at being alone or with someone else in a familiar place, let alone somewhere unknown! There are so many knots to untangle I don't even know where to begin. But I know I have to do something, ACT.
Acting. The opposite of what I have been doing most of my life. My disorder has kept me from ever putting myself out there, which is basically what acting is. It's safe to say I have little experience. But the few times I dared perform for others, it was exhilerating, I felt a confidence I've never felt in my life. Still, this doesn't mean I am actually good at it. In fact, my biggest fear is that when I finally have the courage to try, I am told that I am terrible and unteachable.
I used to think this dream was absurdly incongruous to my personality. Now I am not so sure. I mean, I have always wanted to be some other person. Who better to be an actor than someone who would rather be someone else? It may not be healthy, but I'm unhealthy as it is.
The trouble is, though, that where I live does not offer any way for me to explore this. To do this, I would have to move to another country, maybe even to the other side of the world. This terrifies me. I am not good at being alone or with someone else in a familiar place, let alone somewhere unknown! There are so many knots to untangle I don't even know where to begin. But I know I have to do something, ACT.
Monday, November 19, 2012
The Recluse
Normal people don't know what it feels like to be terrified of something and craving it at the same time. This is my relationship with other people. Not just some people, all people. The mere thought of going into an abstract group of people living their normal lives, mortifies me. It's as if I'm walking into a beautiful painting and ruining it in the process. I don't belong with these people. I never have. As I have never felt it natural to be around people. I am terrible at social interaction Being in a conversation with me is like watching a youtube video of a skateboarder missing a landing: painful for everyone involved.
I can't say for sure when this all began, or whether it is biological or sociological. Was I born to be this way, or were outside factors responsible? I know nothing is clinically wrong with me, so I guess it's the latter. To get right down to it, I am an involuntary recluse. My capturer is my own mind. My brain just isn't co-operating. The healthy part has hopes and dreams, and it desperately wants to share meaningful things with other people. This is the part I choose to identify with. The other part drags me along by my hair, forcing me to stay home although everything rides on me showing up. It kicks and screams until I have no choice but to surrender, as if I were not man at all, but a mere puppet. This is me, but at the same time it isn't. No wonder people move away from me.
This isn't just hurting me. I can see how it is affecting my family. It is like a tumor eating away at their happiness. It would only be natural to think that maybe their lives would be easier without me in it. Of course I know they'd disagree, they love me no matter what, yada yada. This is no solution, I know this much. I just wish certain things sometimes. Today I lost again to the bad part of me. I'm sitting here drinking rum at 9 am like some fucking sad "alcoholic writer" wannabe. This is not the person I was supposed to be.
I can't say for sure when this all began, or whether it is biological or sociological. Was I born to be this way, or were outside factors responsible? I know nothing is clinically wrong with me, so I guess it's the latter. To get right down to it, I am an involuntary recluse. My capturer is my own mind. My brain just isn't co-operating. The healthy part has hopes and dreams, and it desperately wants to share meaningful things with other people. This is the part I choose to identify with. The other part drags me along by my hair, forcing me to stay home although everything rides on me showing up. It kicks and screams until I have no choice but to surrender, as if I were not man at all, but a mere puppet. This is me, but at the same time it isn't. No wonder people move away from me.
This isn't just hurting me. I can see how it is affecting my family. It is like a tumor eating away at their happiness. It would only be natural to think that maybe their lives would be easier without me in it. Of course I know they'd disagree, they love me no matter what, yada yada. This is no solution, I know this much. I just wish certain things sometimes. Today I lost again to the bad part of me. I'm sitting here drinking rum at 9 am like some fucking sad "alcoholic writer" wannabe. This is not the person I was supposed to be.
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