Ohhhhhh, Sarah McLachlan, why is it that I go for months without listening to your gorgeous music, yet always turn back to you when I'm down in the dumps?
I want to keep typing, but it's just so hard to type when there's someone sitting just a few feet away, waiting for you to go to bed. It's like I'm being pressured. Oh, I know he doesn't mean to, but I'm paranoid, so that's how it feels. My being at the computer typing away is keeping him awake, and his being awake is making me paranoid.
So maybe I should just forget all this and go to bed. I mean, after I wake up tomorrow, this . . . melancholy . . . will be gone. At least I hope it will. Oh, I'm being dumb. Of course it will. I'm just paranoid and over-dramatic and making big deals out of tiny, insignificant ones.
Ugh, I thought I was done with this dren.
Things were going so well. Hell, they are still going pretty well. I mean, I've made it almost a year without meds and things have stayed relatively . . . no, not "relatively" . . . they have been good.
But all it takes is one little crack and the depression floods back in. Again, dramatic, I know.
I really HATE not being the center of attention, you know? I hate it, I fear it, I dread it, I can't stand it. It's like I've failed.
I hate failing. I hate failing completely, I hate failing just a little bit.
I hate not being perfect. I hate having faults. I have having weaknesses.
I hate not being the best; the greatest; #1.
Because I should be. Shouldn't I? I'm GOOD! I'm a great person! But I'm not the best, so I'm not good enough.
Anything less than the best is failure.
Good god, how can I hold myself up to standards like these? I mean, I'm human. I wouldn't hold any of my friends up to standards like that, so why do I hold myself up to them?
Because I'm *not* them. I should be better.
Because if I'm not . . . if I'm just like them . . . then I'll be forgotten. I'll be ignored. I'll be looked-over. I'll just be some other person, with nothing remarkable about them at all. No reason to stop and . . .
And what? Lord, I don't know. All this is just tumbling out my brain, down my arms, into my fingers, and plinked out onto the keyboard, where it flashes up on my screen.
Ugh, none of this makes any sense. And, no, this is not what I've been meaning to post about. I told you I'd forget about it and put it off and it'd never get done. No, I'm not blaming people for not holding me to it. I mean, how could you? I never/rarely see the few people who still read this? I'm never on instant messenger, I never e-mail.
And even if I was, I'd probably just smile and say, "ok, I'll do it tonight," and in reality I'll just find something else I'd rather do and put it on the back-burner where I'll leave it till it's so old that it just goes away.
I'm just so LAZY! So damn lazy and self-centered! I hold myself up to these impossible ideals, and yet I can't find the motivation to get my ass up and ACCOMPLISH anything!
Maybe I just don't want to. I just want to sit around and live vicariously through the stories I find in books and games and movies. At least at those times I can actually pretend I'm someone else. Someone important. Someone who accomplishes something. Someone who DOES something, who IS someone.
I feel like a leech. I absorb and absorb and absorb everything without giving anything myself.
Everything?
Lord, I'm confusing myself.
I don't want to go to bed. I don't know why. It just scares me.
No, it doesn't scare me, it . . .
I don't know. I just don't want to do it.
I want to type more. I want to be more specific about what's bothering me, but I don't think I can do it. I'll just be even more incoherent, and this'll make even less sense.
Or maybe it's the fact that once I DO put into words SPECIFICALLY what's on my mind, then it'll just look stupid and childish, and then I'll feel stupid and childish, and I HATE feeling stupid.
You know, there are so many things in life that I've held myself back from because I can't bear the thought of looking stupid. Even the notion that I might POSSIBLY have a CHANCE of being wrong/stupid/whatever has prevented me from doing more than . . .
I don't know.
I'm just . . . broken.
I don't work. This isn't right. This can't be how . . .
Just when I think I have something to say, the thought . . .
Like that, it just floats away. And I can't get it back.
