Happy April; I’m the fool. (I know it’s already the 3rd, but being a fool never goes out of style)
I have applied for my first of seven schools in England! It’s the University of Essex. I don’t know how strict UK universities are, and I don’t know how hard it is to get in, but I really hope I do, because it’s a psycholinguistics MA, like specifically psycholinguistics. You did notice, though, I said MA. See, I’ve decided that in order to make myself as palatable a candidate as possible, I must swallow my pride and apply as a Masters student. It’s hard for me to do, because despite trying not to be, I’m a complete snob when it comes to academia, but I think it’s my only move at this point. I really do feel like I’m playing a losing chess game with my life. It’s how I’ve always felt, really, now that I think about it. I play the right moves, or what I think are the right moves, but my opponent is always better, and no matter what I do, I keep losing. I believe that I’m fundamentally bad at the game, but I keep playing anyway, because I’m stubborn like that. And maybe that’s a good thing. We all remember that iconic scene in Captain Marvel, meant to exemplify Carol’s humanity, in which she keeps getting up after being knocked down. That’s me, or at least it’s how I’d like to be, resilient until it’s easy. Or maybe it never will be easy, but I can get to the point where things don’t make me cry so much, and I know how to take criticism without self-combusting.
I’m just now realizing that it was six years ago that I was living life at my happiest. Six whole years ago. Eighteen-year-old me was like a completely different person. No, well really, she was a completely different person. We never step twice into the same stream and all that. But it’s weird to think about— even then, I never believed I would live this long. But now I’m all grown up. I think it’s been hard for me to accept that I’m not in college anymore. No one wants to admit that they’re getting older. I feel like one of my beloved Romantic poets would have something to say about the matter, but because I’m nowhere near as well-read as I used to be, I can’t bring it to mind. Consider it said, though.
That’s such a sad paragraph. That legitimately made me sad. But things don’t have to be over for me. They really don’t. I can still be who I want to be. And who’s that?
I want to be kind and warm and gentle and good. I want to make people feel loved and safe and happy, and I want to help the world around me in all the different ways I can. I want to water the sunflowers in life and make lemonade. I want to talk to animals, hold cooking parties, kiss my friends, dance in the elevator, and read pretentious literature. I want curiosity and enthusiasm and passion and love and contentment, and I want to buy flowers for my friends, and I want to bake bread for people, and I want to look at the stars.
And then there’s all the other things I want, like a good job, and pretty lingerie, and designer clothes, and nice ingredients for cooking, and fresh flowers, and lots of makeup, and shoes and books and home decor, but that’s only secondary. I think I could work at a not-so-good job and still feel fulfilled if I was happy with who I was. Although, I don’t know, on second thought. Working in the warehouse made me want to die. That’s not a really good precedent.
Wait a second. Am I disabled? Like, does mental illness count as a disability? If so, that could explain why working 12-hour days makes my symptoms flare up badly enough to threaten my life. Because that’s what it is, really. Work makes me suicidal; I do dumb stuff (even drinking while on my medications is pretty dangerous). Wow, I just realized this. If I’m disabled, it makes sense that I can only handle at most a 10-hour day. And there’s no shame in it! If other people can be disabled, I can, too, and I’m just as valid as they are.
I think I’m afraid of people leaving me. I sort of expect it to happen, and I’m resigned to it, but I also hate the thought of it. So I’m afraid of E leaving me, even though I know it would be better for her if she did.
Okay, hold that thought, I have to go be a responsible adult and do something around the house.
I'm back!
As I was saying, it's so terrifying to know that no matter what I do, I may end up alone. It very well could happen, you know. I'm not so amazing as all that. But then again, though, it could be that some people think I am. I told Talia that I feel like one of those gimmicky restaurants, because I'm quirky and fun for awhile, and then I get annoying. But she reminded me that even those restaurants have their regulars. Isn't she awesome? But anyway, I think that could be true. Maybe I will find a "regular" who will love me despite my weird soul and kooky ways. Maybe, in fact, I already have. I want that to be the case. I love her so much. I mentioned her in therapy today, and I literally only just said her name, but my therapist remarked on how "there's something there" and how my demeanor changed. I take that to be a good thing. I don't think I mentioned it, but she's coming to visit in two months! I'm so excited that I can hardly sit still. It'll be a whole week full of happiness, and we're going to Vegas at the end, and Talia and some of our friends are coming, too. It's going to be so amazing, unless we break up. What if it happens? I realized that our relationship might have to form in person as well as online, so we'll essentially have to fall in love twice. Can that happen? Is it possible? I really want it to happen. But this is going to be the test of whether or not things can continue-- if things go really badly, then I'll know. But if they go really well, then I'll know that, too. I really hope they go well. That's what I want more than anything. Well, okay, I guess I want my career a little more than that. But this is right up there. I mean, damn, what if I could actually get married and start a family? I never thought I could have that. I'm trying not to get my hopes up too much, because what if things don't go well and I end up disappointed, but I still catch myself dreaming every so often.
I'm suddenly tired. I want to take a nap. But it's already nearly 7PM, and that would be weird. But maybe I'm not actually tired. Maybe I'm just bored.
Why do I hate being sober so much? Well, I guess I don't, really, unless I'm around the house. And then it's terrible. But seriously, though, what's so bad about existing as me? Maybe I need to take up those self-love exercises I was doing once again. In fact, I probably really should. Post to come...
Wednesday, April 3, 2019
Monday, March 11, 2019
I’m hungry, and I’m extremely irritable. Everything is getting on my last nerve. And I can’t even eat for probably another hour, because my loud, crude, grunting roommate hasn’t had her dinner yet, and I don’t want to sit and eat at the same time as her. She’ll talk to me, and make comments about my food, and I won’t be able to eat what I want, because she’ll make me feel bad about it. She already asked my other roommate if she gained weight, and if she asks me that, I think I’ll just about die. Yes, I’m a fatass! Is that what you want to hear? I replaced booze with food, and now I’m probably 40 pounds heavier than I was two years ago. I kept thinking it was a temporary thing, that I would go back to being skinny and cute, but it seems not to be. Like it or not, I’m going to be like this for life. It’s horrifying. I want to start restricting again, but I know that won’t help anything. Or, you know, I could start exercising and eating healthy. That might help, too.
Anyway, I’m really annoyed. My roommates really get in the way of my life. I can’t eat when I want to, or sleep when I want to, and I always have to deal with their annoying chatter and bodily noises. For the most part, they’re not too bad, but it’s that one, that one fucking lady who really pisses me off. And the worst part is, she’s pretty nice, like she has good intentions, but she’s just so annoying. I feel bad for being annoyed.
Everything seems like so much work. I have to graduate from the program and get a job and apply to other grad schools, and it’s so much work, and I really just want to lie in bed and curl up and cry. Nothing’s even wrong, but I feel so terrible (though less terrible than I have in the past). I feel fragile, like my stability is built on a glass foundation. Anything and everything could set me off and put me into a tailspin, and it’s only luck that it hasn’t yet. Small things have the capacity to ruin my day, as do large things, of course, and medium things, and non-issue things, and pretty much all things. Everything hurts. There’s not a single thought that’s not painful in some way. It feels like there’s a whole bunch of spikes in my brain, making it impossible to think anything without being stabbed. It’s not a very pretty analogy, but it gets the point across, I think.
Even their voice sounds are grating. I want to jump out of my skin just hearing them. I know it’s because I’m hungry, but I’m too damn stubborn to go out and eat anything while they’re sitting in there. It still feels horrible, though. I want to scream.
Oh good, now they’re talking about addiction again. Why can’t they think about anything else? I get that it’s the thread that ties us all together, but it’s so repetitive. The worst part is that I’ve started doing it, too, like now I make conversation with the AAssholes about addiction because I want to fit in. And it’s probably good that I do that instead of steadfastly holding to my own values and it assimilating, but it feels like I’m selling out. I don’t want to be brainwashed. I feel like that’s what happens. Everyone says “oh it takes about a year to get used to AA,” and that’s so creepy. They’re always talking about “giving up the bondage of self” and stuff, too, and I hate that so much. Why would God create us as individuals if He didn’t want us to be individual? We’re not some mindless empty vessels, made only to carry out some divine will that no one can define. We’re meant to be human. I think it’s creepy, and I don’t like it one bit.
Why do people talk on speakerphone so loudly? They seem to think that everyone needs to know their business. And I don’t! I don’t want to know the minutiae of your lives, especially not these personal details!
I don’t even know what would make me feel better at this point, so I think I’ll journal. I believe one of the twelve steps is to make a list of all the ways in which I’m a bad person, and I’m feeling suitably masochistic tonight, so I’ll start at the top and list a few.
I am...
•lazy
•selfish
•unmotivated
•spoiled
•unable to follow through
•dumb as fuck
•entitled
•hypocritical
•self-centered
•willful
•stubborn
•prideful
•impatient
•all around bad
I know there’s more, but that’s a good jumping-off place. I’m not a good person, and even though everyone seems to think that I am, I have too many flaws to overcome. I’m not sure what this means— maybe I should join the cult after all, because then I won’t care about my flaws, just about my immense piety. Or maybe I should try to use opposite action and make myself better, even though it feels like there’s no hope. I like that better. I think I’ll try that.
I have to admit, I feel the urge to self-harm right now. Not to drink, no, that’s not on the table, but I would love to grab a knife and have at it. I’m not sure where this is coming from, because I haven’t cut in maybe a month or two (although the urges are often there), but it’s very strong tonight. I need to talk myself down somehow. So let’s explore why I feel this way. Is it spiteful? A sort of look-what-you-made-me-do type thing? Or maybe it’s more along the lines of me being scared to recover, and holding onto any last bit of illness that I can. I think it could be either or both, but neither one is something that I’d like to admit. It’s embarrassing. I feel like I have to be perfect, and if I’m really going to hurt myself in order to paint myself as the victim, that’s pretty imperfect and bad. I want people to feel sorry for me. I want attention, and love, and I want someone to validate me. This probably stems from my early childhood, but since I can’t remember my early childhood except in snippets, we’ll leave that particular mode of psychoanalysis alone. But basically, I suppose, I’m wanting to hurt myself in order to get attention. Oh boy.
What else can I figure out about myself? I would like to be high for this, because I feel like it gives a nice introspection, but of course I can’t do that, so I’m just going to think. But that’s hard. All I can think about is food. I have McDonalds, a salad, and leftover fried rice and orange chicken in the fridge, and I want to eat all of it, but I can’t yet, and it’s driving me crazy. Maybe I should just go to sleep without eating. But no, that’s my self-harm brain talking. I can’t do that.
I guess I’m going to waste more time writing stories that I’ll never publish. I do that too much, and yeah, it brings me joy, but shouldn’t I be doing something else with my time instead? Ah, well. I only have these years that I do. I may as well enjoy them.
Anyway, I’m really annoyed. My roommates really get in the way of my life. I can’t eat when I want to, or sleep when I want to, and I always have to deal with their annoying chatter and bodily noises. For the most part, they’re not too bad, but it’s that one, that one fucking lady who really pisses me off. And the worst part is, she’s pretty nice, like she has good intentions, but she’s just so annoying. I feel bad for being annoyed.
Everything seems like so much work. I have to graduate from the program and get a job and apply to other grad schools, and it’s so much work, and I really just want to lie in bed and curl up and cry. Nothing’s even wrong, but I feel so terrible (though less terrible than I have in the past). I feel fragile, like my stability is built on a glass foundation. Anything and everything could set me off and put me into a tailspin, and it’s only luck that it hasn’t yet. Small things have the capacity to ruin my day, as do large things, of course, and medium things, and non-issue things, and pretty much all things. Everything hurts. There’s not a single thought that’s not painful in some way. It feels like there’s a whole bunch of spikes in my brain, making it impossible to think anything without being stabbed. It’s not a very pretty analogy, but it gets the point across, I think.
Even their voice sounds are grating. I want to jump out of my skin just hearing them. I know it’s because I’m hungry, but I’m too damn stubborn to go out and eat anything while they’re sitting in there. It still feels horrible, though. I want to scream.
Oh good, now they’re talking about addiction again. Why can’t they think about anything else? I get that it’s the thread that ties us all together, but it’s so repetitive. The worst part is that I’ve started doing it, too, like now I make conversation with the AAssholes about addiction because I want to fit in. And it’s probably good that I do that instead of steadfastly holding to my own values and it assimilating, but it feels like I’m selling out. I don’t want to be brainwashed. I feel like that’s what happens. Everyone says “oh it takes about a year to get used to AA,” and that’s so creepy. They’re always talking about “giving up the bondage of self” and stuff, too, and I hate that so much. Why would God create us as individuals if He didn’t want us to be individual? We’re not some mindless empty vessels, made only to carry out some divine will that no one can define. We’re meant to be human. I think it’s creepy, and I don’t like it one bit.
Why do people talk on speakerphone so loudly? They seem to think that everyone needs to know their business. And I don’t! I don’t want to know the minutiae of your lives, especially not these personal details!
I don’t even know what would make me feel better at this point, so I think I’ll journal. I believe one of the twelve steps is to make a list of all the ways in which I’m a bad person, and I’m feeling suitably masochistic tonight, so I’ll start at the top and list a few.
I am...
•lazy
•selfish
•unmotivated
•spoiled
•unable to follow through
•dumb as fuck
•entitled
•hypocritical
•self-centered
•willful
•stubborn
•prideful
•impatient
•all around bad
I know there’s more, but that’s a good jumping-off place. I’m not a good person, and even though everyone seems to think that I am, I have too many flaws to overcome. I’m not sure what this means— maybe I should join the cult after all, because then I won’t care about my flaws, just about my immense piety. Or maybe I should try to use opposite action and make myself better, even though it feels like there’s no hope. I like that better. I think I’ll try that.
I have to admit, I feel the urge to self-harm right now. Not to drink, no, that’s not on the table, but I would love to grab a knife and have at it. I’m not sure where this is coming from, because I haven’t cut in maybe a month or two (although the urges are often there), but it’s very strong tonight. I need to talk myself down somehow. So let’s explore why I feel this way. Is it spiteful? A sort of look-what-you-made-me-do type thing? Or maybe it’s more along the lines of me being scared to recover, and holding onto any last bit of illness that I can. I think it could be either or both, but neither one is something that I’d like to admit. It’s embarrassing. I feel like I have to be perfect, and if I’m really going to hurt myself in order to paint myself as the victim, that’s pretty imperfect and bad. I want people to feel sorry for me. I want attention, and love, and I want someone to validate me. This probably stems from my early childhood, but since I can’t remember my early childhood except in snippets, we’ll leave that particular mode of psychoanalysis alone. But basically, I suppose, I’m wanting to hurt myself in order to get attention. Oh boy.
What else can I figure out about myself? I would like to be high for this, because I feel like it gives a nice introspection, but of course I can’t do that, so I’m just going to think. But that’s hard. All I can think about is food. I have McDonalds, a salad, and leftover fried rice and orange chicken in the fridge, and I want to eat all of it, but I can’t yet, and it’s driving me crazy. Maybe I should just go to sleep without eating. But no, that’s my self-harm brain talking. I can’t do that.
I guess I’m going to waste more time writing stories that I’ll never publish. I do that too much, and yeah, it brings me joy, but shouldn’t I be doing something else with my time instead? Ah, well. I only have these years that I do. I may as well enjoy them.
Tuesday, February 26, 2019
I feel like this blog is sort of a reflection of myself. I've had it for more than ten years, and it's always been a completely private place where I can feel free to say whatever the fuck I want without fear of repercussion. No one reads it except me, and no one cares, and it's nice to know that I can be free to say things and not have to explain myself.
Because I'm always explaining myself. One of the lessons I need to learn is that I don't have to do that. It's okay to just let things be, and not defend the choices I make. I do what I do, and that should be enough. Unfortunately, in this world, it's not. People want to know more. They feel entitled to access me, to discover all they can-- and then mold me into a more palatable version of me. It's gone on so long, and I don't really know who my real self is anymore, because I've been so shaped, carved out like the girl from the Greek myth, made to be the perfect, consumable object, and I don't even know how to access the core of myself anymore. I think I was more myself at eighteen than I am now.
Part of me wants to go back to that, wants to be that naive, wide-eyed, carefree young ingenue with a book of poetry under one arm, and a copy of The Brothers Karamazov under the other. I was adorable, innocent, untouched by addiction and failure, ready to take on the world. And what did the world do to me? Or rather, what did I do to myself? I ruined myself. I had so much potential, and I threw it all away, drowned it in the bottom of a bottle.
And yet, I don't think I would go back, even if I could. I feel that the pain and suffering I've gone through have shaped me, tempered me like fire in a forge. Before, I was pleasant, but I didn't have the deep-rooted kindness that I do now. Yes, I was a good person, but it was because it didn't occur to me that there was injustice in the world. Now, I'm good because I choose to be, and I think that's a subtle, but important distinction. I've been through hell, and I still choose to be ask kind as possible, and I think that's one of my greatest strengths.
I feel like I'm slowly learning about who I am. I'm kind, and I know that's important to me, but what else? I want to be this awesome, amazing person whom everyone loves, and who's ready and able to change the world at a moment's notice, but I think I'm going to have to settle for less. I have to play to my strengths, after all. I feel like I'm the sort of person whom others tolerate, and maybe find pleasant, but who's never anyone's favorite, and who's never even particularly liked. But that could be a cognitive distortion. After all, some people do like me. I know they do. Otherwise, why would they want to spend time with me?
Lately, I've really been wanting to get married. I'm not sure why, or what the shift is, because it used to be, that level of commitment freaked me out. But nowadays, I'm looking forward to it. I feel like it's time for me to be thinking about this sort of thing, especially since I want a longer engagement. Of course, I'm not going to propose just yet; I'll probably wait for another year or so before I do. So it'll be at least two years before I actually get married, and probably more, because I need to save up some money. But here are some things that I've already decided:
Music:
-Love theme from Romeo and Juliet
-Married Life from Up
-Flower Duet from Lakmé
-Entrance of the Queen of Sheba from Solomon
Dress:
Something like this
Or maybe this if I'm feeling daring
Favors:
For the musicians-- chocolates, decorated clothes pins, lip balms/lotions, mini rosins with cute stickers on them, mini bottles of alcohol, cute notepad and pen, and flowers to pin on their clothes
For the guests-- mini lip balms or hand lotions, or something small
For the families-- I'm not sure
For the wedding party-- sweets, lipstick, personalized alcohol or weed in whatever form they like, and anything else that will be helpful
I'm also going to find the cheapest possible hotel to rent out so that we can all just crash afterwards, because otherwise, it might be too tiring. I would let the musicians stay with us if they wanted, because I aim to treat them like fucking rockstars. Musicians deserve the world. And then for the reception, I would want to have dinner with an open bar and a pretty cake for dessert. And then I don't know if we could go on a honeymoon after that, because all of that would be really expensive. But that's okay! I think just settling in to married life would be enough!
Anyway, I really want to get married. I don't know, man, I think I've just been feeling it more and more lately, and then when we played at that renewal of vowels ceremony, it really drove it home for me. I want that! I want bliss and domesticity, and I want to raise a child! It's so strange. I never thought I would want this in my life at all, but here I am, craving that sort of settled adulthood that used to be anathema to me. Things really do change, don't they.
What if after all this, E breaks up with me? That would be a good one, wouldn't it. Oh well. I just have to keep on doing my best, and putting as much work as possible into the relationship, and hopefully things will be okay. I mean, things seem to be okay, at least from what I can tell. We seem to be going strong, although we aren't talking quite as much as I would like, because of the time difference, and because we're both so busy (or rather, she's more busy than I am, but we both do occupy ourselves all day). I realized that I literally don't see any flaws in her. Like, of course I recognize that she has them-- she's sometimes thoughtless, and she can minimize things, and sometimes she has the tendency to isolate. But I don't see those as bad things, or at least, they don't make her a bad person. They're things that she's working on, just as I'm working on my flaws, and they don't define her. What defines her, I think, is her passion, her kindness, her loving, open, genuine heart, her intelligence, her love of others... I could go on and on. She's such a beautiful, amazing human being, and I'm so awed that I was lucky enough to find her. Like, sometimes I have to mentally pinch myself, because I just can't believe how lucky I am. What did a dumb guy like me ever do to deserve this happiness? I'm just a poor old farmer, and she's the princess who somehow noticed me out in the rutabaga field and took a notice of me. Like, obviously, I think I'm a princess, too, but that's what it feels like, you know? I'm so incredibly in love, and it's almost scary. I've always been afraid of commitment, and romantic relationships have always scared me. There was a time, back when I was dating Prince Uncharming while I lived in Ohio, that I thought I could see a future with him, but even then, part of me kept wanting to hold back. And then when I got all-in, everything went horribly. But I think that was his fault, mostly, and partly mine, but mostly his. Also, I've realized that I was romanticizing the idea of being in a relationship. I wanted to be loved, and I wanted affection, and attention, and excitement, and belonging, and everything that I thought a relationship would bring me, and since I was still in denial, I thought a boyfriend was the only way to do it. Now, the idea of dating a man seems so weird to me, like the thought of dating a balloon animal or something. It's just not right, and that's okay, because I've found what's right, and it's E. Or, well, dating women in general, I suppose, but specifically her, because I don't want to date anyone else. I think I'm polyamorous, but when I tried dating someone else (with E's full knowledge and consent, of course), it just didn't feel right, because it wasn't her. I kept wanting to make a joke or a comment, or point something out, or say something weird, but then I realized that she would be the one who would understand that, not my date. So I had to tell her that I couldn't date her, and I told E that she was the only one for me, and I've never looked back. I really do believe that she's my soulmate. I believe in soulmates in general-- platonic, romantic, queerplatonic-- and I believe that we have a lot of them. For me, a soulmate is just someone with whom you're so compatible that you wouldn't mind spending the rest of your life by their side. But I think she's my romantic and platonic soulmate. I love her as a friend, and I know I want to be her friend forever, even if she breaks up with me, but I also love her as a partner. For better or for worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, I want to be with her. And I think that's a lovely thing. I'm very lucky.
I think a lot of my issues with romance stem from how I was raised. I watched my poor mother try to bear the burden of an abusive marriage, and I thought that's just how love was supposed to be-- brief, fleeting, and ultimately toxic and harmful. But I'm starting to see that it doesn't have to be that way. Love isn't only for the young. There's hope for the future, too. For the first time, I'm not biting my nails, waiting to be broken up with every day. I'm secure, I'm safe, I'm hopeful, and it feels so amazingly good. Of course, this probably means that E will break up with me tomorrow or something. But even if she does, I'll be okay. I'm learning to love myself for who I am, and that's more important than being loved by anyone else, even my soulmate. Of course, it'll hurt like a motherfucker, and I probably won't be okay for quite awhile. But in the long run, I will be. I hope that doesn't happen, though. I want to be with her for the rest of my life. I imagine it sometimes, us, living together, hopefully legally married, raising a child and a cat and her dog, me teaching, her writing, just twined together, so radiantly happy. Okay, it's not just sometimes. I think about it all the time. I want this so, so badly, and yes, it'll be a pain with the two different continents, but we can make it work somehow, I'm sure. I'm willing to move there, as long as I can spend part of the year here, maybe summer and winter break, when I'm not teaching. But she also said she's willing to move here, so that could work, too. Whatever we do, I'm sure I'll be so happy. I just need to work on myself and make sure that I'm strong and secure in my mental health.
Which is what I'm doing now. It's hard work, but I think I'm doing better. At least, I've been using my skills more, and my bad periods have been less severe, and shorter. They're still almost constant, and very distressing, but at least I'm not as suicidal anymore. So that's good! I just need to keep on keeping on.
Because I'm always explaining myself. One of the lessons I need to learn is that I don't have to do that. It's okay to just let things be, and not defend the choices I make. I do what I do, and that should be enough. Unfortunately, in this world, it's not. People want to know more. They feel entitled to access me, to discover all they can-- and then mold me into a more palatable version of me. It's gone on so long, and I don't really know who my real self is anymore, because I've been so shaped, carved out like the girl from the Greek myth, made to be the perfect, consumable object, and I don't even know how to access the core of myself anymore. I think I was more myself at eighteen than I am now.
Part of me wants to go back to that, wants to be that naive, wide-eyed, carefree young ingenue with a book of poetry under one arm, and a copy of The Brothers Karamazov under the other. I was adorable, innocent, untouched by addiction and failure, ready to take on the world. And what did the world do to me? Or rather, what did I do to myself? I ruined myself. I had so much potential, and I threw it all away, drowned it in the bottom of a bottle.
And yet, I don't think I would go back, even if I could. I feel that the pain and suffering I've gone through have shaped me, tempered me like fire in a forge. Before, I was pleasant, but I didn't have the deep-rooted kindness that I do now. Yes, I was a good person, but it was because it didn't occur to me that there was injustice in the world. Now, I'm good because I choose to be, and I think that's a subtle, but important distinction. I've been through hell, and I still choose to be ask kind as possible, and I think that's one of my greatest strengths.
I feel like I'm slowly learning about who I am. I'm kind, and I know that's important to me, but what else? I want to be this awesome, amazing person whom everyone loves, and who's ready and able to change the world at a moment's notice, but I think I'm going to have to settle for less. I have to play to my strengths, after all. I feel like I'm the sort of person whom others tolerate, and maybe find pleasant, but who's never anyone's favorite, and who's never even particularly liked. But that could be a cognitive distortion. After all, some people do like me. I know they do. Otherwise, why would they want to spend time with me?
Lately, I've really been wanting to get married. I'm not sure why, or what the shift is, because it used to be, that level of commitment freaked me out. But nowadays, I'm looking forward to it. I feel like it's time for me to be thinking about this sort of thing, especially since I want a longer engagement. Of course, I'm not going to propose just yet; I'll probably wait for another year or so before I do. So it'll be at least two years before I actually get married, and probably more, because I need to save up some money. But here are some things that I've already decided:
Music:
-Love theme from Romeo and Juliet
-Married Life from Up
-Flower Duet from Lakmé
-Entrance of the Queen of Sheba from Solomon
Dress:
Something like this
Or maybe this if I'm feeling daring
Favors:
For the musicians-- chocolates, decorated clothes pins, lip balms/lotions, mini rosins with cute stickers on them, mini bottles of alcohol, cute notepad and pen, and flowers to pin on their clothes
For the guests-- mini lip balms or hand lotions, or something small
For the families-- I'm not sure
For the wedding party-- sweets, lipstick, personalized alcohol or weed in whatever form they like, and anything else that will be helpful
I'm also going to find the cheapest possible hotel to rent out so that we can all just crash afterwards, because otherwise, it might be too tiring. I would let the musicians stay with us if they wanted, because I aim to treat them like fucking rockstars. Musicians deserve the world. And then for the reception, I would want to have dinner with an open bar and a pretty cake for dessert. And then I don't know if we could go on a honeymoon after that, because all of that would be really expensive. But that's okay! I think just settling in to married life would be enough!
Anyway, I really want to get married. I don't know, man, I think I've just been feeling it more and more lately, and then when we played at that renewal of vowels ceremony, it really drove it home for me. I want that! I want bliss and domesticity, and I want to raise a child! It's so strange. I never thought I would want this in my life at all, but here I am, craving that sort of settled adulthood that used to be anathema to me. Things really do change, don't they.
What if after all this, E breaks up with me? That would be a good one, wouldn't it. Oh well. I just have to keep on doing my best, and putting as much work as possible into the relationship, and hopefully things will be okay. I mean, things seem to be okay, at least from what I can tell. We seem to be going strong, although we aren't talking quite as much as I would like, because of the time difference, and because we're both so busy (or rather, she's more busy than I am, but we both do occupy ourselves all day). I realized that I literally don't see any flaws in her. Like, of course I recognize that she has them-- she's sometimes thoughtless, and she can minimize things, and sometimes she has the tendency to isolate. But I don't see those as bad things, or at least, they don't make her a bad person. They're things that she's working on, just as I'm working on my flaws, and they don't define her. What defines her, I think, is her passion, her kindness, her loving, open, genuine heart, her intelligence, her love of others... I could go on and on. She's such a beautiful, amazing human being, and I'm so awed that I was lucky enough to find her. Like, sometimes I have to mentally pinch myself, because I just can't believe how lucky I am. What did a dumb guy like me ever do to deserve this happiness? I'm just a poor old farmer, and she's the princess who somehow noticed me out in the rutabaga field and took a notice of me. Like, obviously, I think I'm a princess, too, but that's what it feels like, you know? I'm so incredibly in love, and it's almost scary. I've always been afraid of commitment, and romantic relationships have always scared me. There was a time, back when I was dating Prince Uncharming while I lived in Ohio, that I thought I could see a future with him, but even then, part of me kept wanting to hold back. And then when I got all-in, everything went horribly. But I think that was his fault, mostly, and partly mine, but mostly his. Also, I've realized that I was romanticizing the idea of being in a relationship. I wanted to be loved, and I wanted affection, and attention, and excitement, and belonging, and everything that I thought a relationship would bring me, and since I was still in denial, I thought a boyfriend was the only way to do it. Now, the idea of dating a man seems so weird to me, like the thought of dating a balloon animal or something. It's just not right, and that's okay, because I've found what's right, and it's E. Or, well, dating women in general, I suppose, but specifically her, because I don't want to date anyone else. I think I'm polyamorous, but when I tried dating someone else (with E's full knowledge and consent, of course), it just didn't feel right, because it wasn't her. I kept wanting to make a joke or a comment, or point something out, or say something weird, but then I realized that she would be the one who would understand that, not my date. So I had to tell her that I couldn't date her, and I told E that she was the only one for me, and I've never looked back. I really do believe that she's my soulmate. I believe in soulmates in general-- platonic, romantic, queerplatonic-- and I believe that we have a lot of them. For me, a soulmate is just someone with whom you're so compatible that you wouldn't mind spending the rest of your life by their side. But I think she's my romantic and platonic soulmate. I love her as a friend, and I know I want to be her friend forever, even if she breaks up with me, but I also love her as a partner. For better or for worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, I want to be with her. And I think that's a lovely thing. I'm very lucky.
I think a lot of my issues with romance stem from how I was raised. I watched my poor mother try to bear the burden of an abusive marriage, and I thought that's just how love was supposed to be-- brief, fleeting, and ultimately toxic and harmful. But I'm starting to see that it doesn't have to be that way. Love isn't only for the young. There's hope for the future, too. For the first time, I'm not biting my nails, waiting to be broken up with every day. I'm secure, I'm safe, I'm hopeful, and it feels so amazingly good. Of course, this probably means that E will break up with me tomorrow or something. But even if she does, I'll be okay. I'm learning to love myself for who I am, and that's more important than being loved by anyone else, even my soulmate. Of course, it'll hurt like a motherfucker, and I probably won't be okay for quite awhile. But in the long run, I will be. I hope that doesn't happen, though. I want to be with her for the rest of my life. I imagine it sometimes, us, living together, hopefully legally married, raising a child and a cat and her dog, me teaching, her writing, just twined together, so radiantly happy. Okay, it's not just sometimes. I think about it all the time. I want this so, so badly, and yes, it'll be a pain with the two different continents, but we can make it work somehow, I'm sure. I'm willing to move there, as long as I can spend part of the year here, maybe summer and winter break, when I'm not teaching. But she also said she's willing to move here, so that could work, too. Whatever we do, I'm sure I'll be so happy. I just need to work on myself and make sure that I'm strong and secure in my mental health.
Which is what I'm doing now. It's hard work, but I think I'm doing better. At least, I've been using my skills more, and my bad periods have been less severe, and shorter. They're still almost constant, and very distressing, but at least I'm not as suicidal anymore. So that's good! I just need to keep on keeping on.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
Would anyone really notice or care if I were to die? I don’t feel like I matter much, not in the grand scheme of things. And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that it would affect someone negatively. After all, I tell everyone else how much they matter, so maybe I would matter to them, too. Or not. Maybe my sick brain is right, and I’m an anomaly. Or maybe my healthy brain is right, and I’m just like everyone else. It’s hard to say. I don’t know, and it’s hard to say definitively which side is right, or if either of them is, but all I know is that I feel horrible.
Everyone in this house is so fucking loud. And I don’t understand why they can’t go in the living room for their hourly screaming fits and loud, triggering conversations. Why do they have to stay right outside my room? I try so hard to be courteous and thoughtful, but no one really cares to do that for me. I hate this. I hate loud noises, first of all, and I hate that I have to deal with all these people. I wonder if I would feel better if I didn’t have to live here. But then I would have to live with my mom, and that wouldn’t be much better. But at least it wouldn’t be as loud.
Am I asking too much to want some peace and quiet occasionally? Maybe it’s more than I should expect. I guess I have to be realistic about this. And I should practice radical acceptance, because I really can’t change this. I just hate this so much, and I want to be anywhere else, but then when I think about it, I don’t want to be anywhere else, either. I just want to feel comfortable for once. I don’t, you see. I feel horrible all the time, almost physically sick. I don’t want to do anything, and everything gets on my nerves. I don’t want to drink, not exactly, but I want to do something, because I can hardly stand this. I want to drink bleach. It would be so easy. It’s right in the cabinet across the hall, and I could easily grab it and go for it. But I’m supposed to meet a friend later, and then FaceTime with Buttercup tonight, and they would definitely be offended if I randomly didn’t show because I was dead.
Of course, that wouldn’t be my problem anymore, because I would be dead. But still.
What would make me feel better? What can I do? I hate this so much. I just want to feel okay for once. I’m not sure when it’s been better, but I know it has been, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s going to be like this for the rest of my life, however long that may be. Is it really all I can ask for to be only temporarily not in pain for a few minutes at a time? That’s the absolute best I can manage right now. I need to talk to a psychiatrist, or something. I feel like my program is very hands-off, and they don’t seem to care about me that much. I still remember when I told my therapist that I was feeling suicidal and I had a plan and a date, and she basically told me it was my fault and sent me out of the office. I like her, but I don’t think she cares about me very much.
Maybe I’ll drink some coffee. Caffeine usually helps me feel a bit better. I think all alcoholics are addicted to caffeine, and most are addicted to nicotine, too. Which is weird; cigarettes seem just as bad as alcohol. But it’s their choice, and who am I to argue against something that makes them feel better? Lord knows I’m not above begging cigarettes off people, either. The only reason I haven’t started smoking again is that I’m afraid to light a lighter. I’m so scared of fire, and also, I don’t know how to buy the packets at the store. Then, there’s the fact that I’m too ashamed to bum cigarettes off people like I did in the hospital. I was a whole different person then, so over-medicated and desperate to die, and I didn’t really care. But now I’m insecure as all hell, and I don’t want to be beholden to these AA assholes anyway, so I don’t do it. But goodness gracious, do I ever want to.
Or maybe I should try to masturbate away the sadness. That works sometimes. If I close my eyes, I can pretend someone else is doing it to me, and then I can pretend that I’m desirable and worthy. It doesn’t last, but at least it feels physically nice, and that’s better than not feeling anything at all.
Whatever I do, though, I should get out of bed. That can’t be helping. It’s comfortable in here, and it’s safe, and I don’t have to interact with people, but it’s like hiding, and I shouldn’t do that, not if I want to face my challenges head-on. But life itself is a challenge, and I can’t help but face that, unless I kill myself, so it feels unfair that I have to stop looking for even the smallest measure of comfort and plunge myself into what other people consider to be healthy. I feel like I’m constantly doing what other people tell me. When does it get to be my turn? Everyone tells me to trust the process, and blindly obey, and it pisses me off. Why don’t I get to question? Why don’t I get to be my own person? I think there should be a way for me to heal that doesn’t require me to strip myself of all independent thought. Maybe other people are wrong. Maybe they’re dumbasses like me. Why do they claim to have all the answers, anyway? I think a truly healthy person wouldn’t act that way. And just to be clear, I’m 100% talking about the AAssholes (as I so uncleverly call them). My therapist and treatment team don’t act that way. They’re here to help, and I appreciate them, even though they make me feel awful sometimes. But the people at AA are so sanctimonious and irritating, and they act like they’re in a cult. All hail the glorious sobriety! Okay, great, but stop trying to drag me down with you. I’d rather be a normal person, thanks. I mean, shit, they seriously don’t think about anything but their addictions. It’s so draining. I get that alcohol sort of takes away your sense of self, but shouldn’t you be trying to gain that back, instead of inverting it and keeping it as an obsession? Just because you’re now obsessed with not drinking doesn’t mean you’re not just as insufferable as when you were obsessed with drinking.
Anyway. I think I’m going to do something to try and make myself feel better. It remains to be decided what it will be, but hopefully it will help. I’ll check in later.
Everyone in this house is so fucking loud. And I don’t understand why they can’t go in the living room for their hourly screaming fits and loud, triggering conversations. Why do they have to stay right outside my room? I try so hard to be courteous and thoughtful, but no one really cares to do that for me. I hate this. I hate loud noises, first of all, and I hate that I have to deal with all these people. I wonder if I would feel better if I didn’t have to live here. But then I would have to live with my mom, and that wouldn’t be much better. But at least it wouldn’t be as loud.
Am I asking too much to want some peace and quiet occasionally? Maybe it’s more than I should expect. I guess I have to be realistic about this. And I should practice radical acceptance, because I really can’t change this. I just hate this so much, and I want to be anywhere else, but then when I think about it, I don’t want to be anywhere else, either. I just want to feel comfortable for once. I don’t, you see. I feel horrible all the time, almost physically sick. I don’t want to do anything, and everything gets on my nerves. I don’t want to drink, not exactly, but I want to do something, because I can hardly stand this. I want to drink bleach. It would be so easy. It’s right in the cabinet across the hall, and I could easily grab it and go for it. But I’m supposed to meet a friend later, and then FaceTime with Buttercup tonight, and they would definitely be offended if I randomly didn’t show because I was dead.
Of course, that wouldn’t be my problem anymore, because I would be dead. But still.
What would make me feel better? What can I do? I hate this so much. I just want to feel okay for once. I’m not sure when it’s been better, but I know it has been, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s going to be like this for the rest of my life, however long that may be. Is it really all I can ask for to be only temporarily not in pain for a few minutes at a time? That’s the absolute best I can manage right now. I need to talk to a psychiatrist, or something. I feel like my program is very hands-off, and they don’t seem to care about me that much. I still remember when I told my therapist that I was feeling suicidal and I had a plan and a date, and she basically told me it was my fault and sent me out of the office. I like her, but I don’t think she cares about me very much.
Maybe I’ll drink some coffee. Caffeine usually helps me feel a bit better. I think all alcoholics are addicted to caffeine, and most are addicted to nicotine, too. Which is weird; cigarettes seem just as bad as alcohol. But it’s their choice, and who am I to argue against something that makes them feel better? Lord knows I’m not above begging cigarettes off people, either. The only reason I haven’t started smoking again is that I’m afraid to light a lighter. I’m so scared of fire, and also, I don’t know how to buy the packets at the store. Then, there’s the fact that I’m too ashamed to bum cigarettes off people like I did in the hospital. I was a whole different person then, so over-medicated and desperate to die, and I didn’t really care. But now I’m insecure as all hell, and I don’t want to be beholden to these AA assholes anyway, so I don’t do it. But goodness gracious, do I ever want to.
Or maybe I should try to masturbate away the sadness. That works sometimes. If I close my eyes, I can pretend someone else is doing it to me, and then I can pretend that I’m desirable and worthy. It doesn’t last, but at least it feels physically nice, and that’s better than not feeling anything at all.
Whatever I do, though, I should get out of bed. That can’t be helping. It’s comfortable in here, and it’s safe, and I don’t have to interact with people, but it’s like hiding, and I shouldn’t do that, not if I want to face my challenges head-on. But life itself is a challenge, and I can’t help but face that, unless I kill myself, so it feels unfair that I have to stop looking for even the smallest measure of comfort and plunge myself into what other people consider to be healthy. I feel like I’m constantly doing what other people tell me. When does it get to be my turn? Everyone tells me to trust the process, and blindly obey, and it pisses me off. Why don’t I get to question? Why don’t I get to be my own person? I think there should be a way for me to heal that doesn’t require me to strip myself of all independent thought. Maybe other people are wrong. Maybe they’re dumbasses like me. Why do they claim to have all the answers, anyway? I think a truly healthy person wouldn’t act that way. And just to be clear, I’m 100% talking about the AAssholes (as I so uncleverly call them). My therapist and treatment team don’t act that way. They’re here to help, and I appreciate them, even though they make me feel awful sometimes. But the people at AA are so sanctimonious and irritating, and they act like they’re in a cult. All hail the glorious sobriety! Okay, great, but stop trying to drag me down with you. I’d rather be a normal person, thanks. I mean, shit, they seriously don’t think about anything but their addictions. It’s so draining. I get that alcohol sort of takes away your sense of self, but shouldn’t you be trying to gain that back, instead of inverting it and keeping it as an obsession? Just because you’re now obsessed with not drinking doesn’t mean you’re not just as insufferable as when you were obsessed with drinking.
Anyway. I think I’m going to do something to try and make myself feel better. It remains to be decided what it will be, but hopefully it will help. I’ll check in later.
Friday, February 22, 2019
I have a new plan. I don't think I mentioned it earlier, but I'm going to apply to grad school in London, because I don't think Georgia is going to let me come back. If I were to get in, that would be amazing, and would prove that life is worth living, and that all things happen for a reason, but if I were to be rejected, it would just showcase the meaninglessness of life. So I'm afraid to apply, but I'm going to do it anyway, because I for sure can't get in if I don't apply, right? It's terrifying to think that my future is held on something so fragile as the whim of a single lecturer, who may or may not agree to take me under her wing as a research student, but it's probably good practice for me. Or something. I do wish she would reply, though. It's been more than a day. And I know that academics are busy, and that they often can't reply to emails on time, but it feels like she's going to reject my research inquiry, or maybe think that I'm rude, or something like that. I don't know what to think, really. I have no control over the situation anymore, and that's scary.
Someone at the AA meeting today said that experience is something we get right after we need it, and I think that's true. I wish I had experience with grad schools, and applications, and research inquiries, and all of this. I feel like I'm shooting in the dark with my eyes closed. And I can't ask my mom, because she would pitch a fit over me applying in the first place. Fortunately, E has some experience with helping other people apply, and with reapplying to school after having a mental health-induced leave of absence (and being accepted), so I'm trusting her to help me through. I do trust her, so much. Even though some of her edits on my research proposal weren't exactly what I would have put, I still changed them, because my level of trust in her is that high. Do you know how much I have to trust someone in order to trust their writing skills over mine? This is unheard of.
I really have no idea what's going to happen. I don't know if I'm being overly pessimistic when I say that I think I'm going to be rejected, or if that's actually true, but hey, Georgia wanted me, and I was only one of six candidates to get in, so maybe UCL will want me, too. It could be. I can't imagine it, but that doesn't mean it won't happen. I didn't imagine visiting E in England, or going to Georgia, or even living in this horrible sober living house, and somehow, I muddled through all of that okay. Or, well, I suppose one might argue that I didn't muddle through my stint in Georgia with any degree of okay-ness, but at least I didn't die. The point is, things can happen with no prior precedent. They have to. Experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever when I move, and all that. Just because I can't imagine going to another country-- another continent-- for three years (and I definitely can't imagine it) doesn't mean that it can't conceivably happen. It could happen. I'm trying not to get my hopes up too much, but that doesn't mean I have to purposefully crush them at every opportunity, either. I'm just going to try to practice mindfulness, stay in the moment, not expect anything, keep it neutral. But I just wish I could know so I could prepare.
Someone at the AA meeting today said that experience is something we get right after we need it, and I think that's true. I wish I had experience with grad schools, and applications, and research inquiries, and all of this. I feel like I'm shooting in the dark with my eyes closed. And I can't ask my mom, because she would pitch a fit over me applying in the first place. Fortunately, E has some experience with helping other people apply, and with reapplying to school after having a mental health-induced leave of absence (and being accepted), so I'm trusting her to help me through. I do trust her, so much. Even though some of her edits on my research proposal weren't exactly what I would have put, I still changed them, because my level of trust in her is that high. Do you know how much I have to trust someone in order to trust their writing skills over mine? This is unheard of.
I really have no idea what's going to happen. I don't know if I'm being overly pessimistic when I say that I think I'm going to be rejected, or if that's actually true, but hey, Georgia wanted me, and I was only one of six candidates to get in, so maybe UCL will want me, too. It could be. I can't imagine it, but that doesn't mean it won't happen. I didn't imagine visiting E in England, or going to Georgia, or even living in this horrible sober living house, and somehow, I muddled through all of that okay. Or, well, I suppose one might argue that I didn't muddle through my stint in Georgia with any degree of okay-ness, but at least I didn't die. The point is, things can happen with no prior precedent. They have to. Experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever when I move, and all that. Just because I can't imagine going to another country-- another continent-- for three years (and I definitely can't imagine it) doesn't mean that it can't conceivably happen. It could happen. I'm trying not to get my hopes up too much, but that doesn't mean I have to purposefully crush them at every opportunity, either. I'm just going to try to practice mindfulness, stay in the moment, not expect anything, keep it neutral. But I just wish I could know so I could prepare.
I'm in rehab!
Okay, it's not really rehab. It's a sober living house, and I go to a therapy program during the day. But same difference.
I really hate living here. Everyone is so loud. They scream and yell and make such a big deal out of everything. I'm so hungry, but everyone's hanging out in the kitchen, so I can't go in there and get my food, because I don't want to bother anyone. But man, I'm really hungry.
I also have to go to AA. I really hate it. I have a lot of problems with it, but I'm too tired to enumerate them right now. Suffice to say it sucks, and we'll leave it at that.
(I have 11 days sober, though. So there's that.)
I feel like my life is changing so much, and I don't know if I'm ready for it.
Okay, this is more salient: I want to die, but let's not indulge that. It's symptomatic. Let's instead think about what it means. I want to die because I feel anxious, insecure, sad, hopeless, and despairing. It's valid that I feel that way, and I can sit in those emotions, but I don't have to take it to the extreme of dying. Instead, I can try to reason it out, allow myself to feel it without judgement, and see what's going on behind the pain.
1. I'm worried that people won't like me.
2. I'm worried that this situation will last forever
3. I feel that I'm not as good as other people
4. I feel that I don't have a future
5. I fear that people will end up abandoning me
6. I fear that I'm going to mess up somehow and this will make me a failure
Now that I've identified these thoughts, I'm going to try and talk back to them a little bit, starting with number one:
1. It's okay if people don't like me. Not everyone has to like me. I just need to worry about liking myself, and maybe being liked by the people who are important to me. I shouldn't be codependent, though, and I think I do have that tendency.
2. Factually, I know that this situation can't last forever. It can't. I'm not allowed to stay in the program forever, and I'm not allowed to stay in this house forever. Besides, my money would run out if I tried. I can't do it. Like it or not, something is going to change.
3. This is hard to talk back to. I feel like it's true, and that makes me feel insecure. But I think what I need to remember is that all I can do is my best, and other people aren't as hard on me as I am on myself. If I do my best, that's good enough.
4. I don't know that. This is a cognitive distortion called fortune-telling. I will have some type of future for sure, and what it is depends on what I do to make it happen.
5. I have no control over what other people do. However, I don't know for sure that they will abandon me. All I can do is love people and do my best to treat them well, and try to radically accept the rest.
6. I probably will mess up. This doesn't make me a failure, though.
Okay, it's not really rehab. It's a sober living house, and I go to a therapy program during the day. But same difference.
I really hate living here. Everyone is so loud. They scream and yell and make such a big deal out of everything. I'm so hungry, but everyone's hanging out in the kitchen, so I can't go in there and get my food, because I don't want to bother anyone. But man, I'm really hungry.
I also have to go to AA. I really hate it. I have a lot of problems with it, but I'm too tired to enumerate them right now. Suffice to say it sucks, and we'll leave it at that.
(I have 11 days sober, though. So there's that.)
I feel like my life is changing so much, and I don't know if I'm ready for it.
Okay, this is more salient: I want to die, but let's not indulge that. It's symptomatic. Let's instead think about what it means. I want to die because I feel anxious, insecure, sad, hopeless, and despairing. It's valid that I feel that way, and I can sit in those emotions, but I don't have to take it to the extreme of dying. Instead, I can try to reason it out, allow myself to feel it without judgement, and see what's going on behind the pain.
1. I'm worried that people won't like me.
2. I'm worried that this situation will last forever
3. I feel that I'm not as good as other people
4. I feel that I don't have a future
5. I fear that people will end up abandoning me
6. I fear that I'm going to mess up somehow and this will make me a failure
Now that I've identified these thoughts, I'm going to try and talk back to them a little bit, starting with number one:
1. It's okay if people don't like me. Not everyone has to like me. I just need to worry about liking myself, and maybe being liked by the people who are important to me. I shouldn't be codependent, though, and I think I do have that tendency.
2. Factually, I know that this situation can't last forever. It can't. I'm not allowed to stay in the program forever, and I'm not allowed to stay in this house forever. Besides, my money would run out if I tried. I can't do it. Like it or not, something is going to change.
3. This is hard to talk back to. I feel like it's true, and that makes me feel insecure. But I think what I need to remember is that all I can do is my best, and other people aren't as hard on me as I am on myself. If I do my best, that's good enough.
4. I don't know that. This is a cognitive distortion called fortune-telling. I will have some type of future for sure, and what it is depends on what I do to make it happen.
5. I have no control over what other people do. However, I don't know for sure that they will abandon me. All I can do is love people and do my best to treat them well, and try to radically accept the rest.
6. I probably will mess up. This doesn't make me a failure, though.
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
I’m going to journal again, so it’s going to be fairly stream-of-consciousness.
I’m trying to be gentle and compassionate with myself, but it’s hard, because I feel like I’ve done so much wrong that I can’t even begin to come back from it. I’m definitely not what society would call a success, and it’s hard to reconcile myself to that. It makes me want to be even more of a wreck, because then at least maybe something would kill me. But I don’t want to be that person anymore. It’s just hard not to. I’ve been my enemy my entire life, and now I’m trying to be my friend, but it’s really hard. Everything is a stuggle. But I guess that’s okay. I have to stoically accept my tragic lot in life like some puritan pioneer. Like Ethan Frome with anxiety and an alcohol problem. Ew. But it’s true, rhere’s no use complaining. I just have to decide who I am and tick to it.
So, who am I?
That’s a hard question to answer. I really don’t know. I’m getting to know myself slowly, but it will take time. And rhat’s okay
I’m trying to be gentle and compassionate with myself, but it’s hard, because I feel like I’ve done so much wrong that I can’t even begin to come back from it. I’m definitely not what society would call a success, and it’s hard to reconcile myself to that. It makes me want to be even more of a wreck, because then at least maybe something would kill me. But I don’t want to be that person anymore. It’s just hard not to. I’ve been my enemy my entire life, and now I’m trying to be my friend, but it’s really hard. Everything is a stuggle. But I guess that’s okay. I have to stoically accept my tragic lot in life like some puritan pioneer. Like Ethan Frome with anxiety and an alcohol problem. Ew. But it’s true, rhere’s no use complaining. I just have to decide who I am and tick to it.
So, who am I?
That’s a hard question to answer. I really don’t know. I’m getting to know myself slowly, but it will take time. And rhat’s okay
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