early? mornings
Feb. 5th, 2005 09:35 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sureiI didn't actually go to sleep. Does this mean I'm not a vampire after all?
The memething got me started off again on reading old posts. And, y'know? It's one of those things that give insights. When I started this up initially, back in... *checks* in August 03 - a couple weeks before flying out - I was so joyful, and funny. Then I got pretty damn sarcastic, but that was still amusing, and there were the occasional really happy posts, like the one detailing the feminist pirate ship we made out of boxes, etc. But after that... I stopped mid April, because I had long since stopped laughing at myself. I haven't yet reached the point where I start openly worrying about my mental health, but I can see just by that... There's this steady sort of decline, and it's making me unhappy. I want to write like I did at first.
But I don't have any stories to tell.
...
Let me let that sink in for a moment.
Right. Actually, that would explain a lot. Stories are my life, but if my life isn't giving me any, then of course I wouldn't be happy with it, of course I would start hiding myself away and becoming increasingly dependant on fiction and escape, and of course that would lead to lonliness and of course that would increase my need for human contact, while diminshing my self-confidence at the same time.
Somehow, actually, this makes me feel better in a way. Especially since I can pinpoint two particular incidents.
Damn them.
Damn ~that guy~ (it's been ages since I referred to him like that), and damn the other one, for their conceitedness, for their influence, for their selfcentered indifference and arrogance and their casual dismissal of anyone's importance than their own. Damn the other, especially, for his rejections and mockery and deliberate cruelty.
I wasn't asking for it (IwantyouIwantyoucomeonletsdoityougotmesohardIwantyou). I wasn't being too forward (IloveyouyouscaremeIlikeyoulovemeletsdothisandthatwhowouldwanttodoanythingwithher?). It wasn't me, but them.
A year. Two months. More than that. Damn them for making me feel like it was my fault, for making me the bad one, the wrong one, for pushing their ugliness off on me.
Damn them. I hope they rot before they die.
The memething got me started off again on reading old posts. And, y'know? It's one of those things that give insights. When I started this up initially, back in... *checks* in August 03 - a couple weeks before flying out - I was so joyful, and funny. Then I got pretty damn sarcastic, but that was still amusing, and there were the occasional really happy posts, like the one detailing the feminist pirate ship we made out of boxes, etc. But after that... I stopped mid April, because I had long since stopped laughing at myself. I haven't yet reached the point where I start openly worrying about my mental health, but I can see just by that... There's this steady sort of decline, and it's making me unhappy. I want to write like I did at first.
But I don't have any stories to tell.
...
Let me let that sink in for a moment.
Right. Actually, that would explain a lot. Stories are my life, but if my life isn't giving me any, then of course I wouldn't be happy with it, of course I would start hiding myself away and becoming increasingly dependant on fiction and escape, and of course that would lead to lonliness and of course that would increase my need for human contact, while diminshing my self-confidence at the same time.
Somehow, actually, this makes me feel better in a way. Especially since I can pinpoint two particular incidents.
Damn them.
Damn ~that guy~ (it's been ages since I referred to him like that), and damn the other one, for their conceitedness, for their influence, for their selfcentered indifference and arrogance and their casual dismissal of anyone's importance than their own. Damn the other, especially, for his rejections and mockery and deliberate cruelty.
I wasn't asking for it (IwantyouIwantyoucomeonletsdoityougotmesohardIwantyou). I wasn't being too forward (IloveyouyouscaremeIlikeyoulovemeletsdothisandthatwhowouldwanttodoanythingwithher?). It wasn't me, but them.
A year. Two months. More than that. Damn them for making me feel like it was my fault, for making me the bad one, the wrong one, for pushing their ugliness off on me.
Damn them. I hope they rot before they die.