Monday, 15 March 2004

Return of the Maudlin Monster
Pre-Script: Shorthand for this post: "Nobody loves me, everybody hates me. I'm going down the garden to eat worms."

Yeah, well. Alone-as-possible and crying once again. I can't hide, but I can stay quiet in the corner. Who this helps, I cannot say, but it's all I can bring myself to do at this moment.

I don't understand myself... and I'm wondering if it's worth the trouble to try. I've degenerated into a tangle of contradictions and a mess of conflicting emotions. From day to day, moment to moment, my whole demeanor changes - from craving the beauty of simplicity and, more importantly, feeling it is within my grasp; to the notion that I no longer know how to be happy. I have changed beyond my comprehension of myself, but on the other hand I have not, and now and then I just consider myself the same old same old, who's always been confused, but didn't always know it.

I always professed to be naturally optimistic and not easily worried, a person who quickly bounces back from any depressions that may overtake me (which in the past have been few). But now though I may bounce back almost as easily, the depressions recur. I bounce back, and forward, and backward and forward like one of those stupid toys with a ball attached by a string to the racquet, paddle, whacking device, whatever you call it. I keep coming back for more punishment, fool that I am.

I have so many ambitions, and positivity that leads me to believe - in theory - that I can attain them. But when it comes to the process of attainment, I strike myself and my hopes down and put up imagined barriers of every possible kind. Yeah, twice in the last four nights I've dreamed of an aggressive guard dog, belonging to someone else, which prevents me from getting to my house(home). The second time I did manage to shout it down, only to have its owners come growling towards me instead. If I were more paranoid about symbols in my dreams, this one would be pretty obvious. But I'm not going to say it first.

I don't want a boyfriend/partner/lover, but after a long time of not getting noticed because I'm not trying to be noticed (trying not to be noticed??), I get sad that nobody values me. Then I savagely berate myself for bothering about what people think of me, and indeed, I become angry in my mind towards strangers. Then I get miserable again, because who else are to be my new friends (if I could still make friends) if not strangers? It's been so long since I've met really new people that each encounter with a stranger dissolves me into a shivering puddle of nerves, which in no way helps the constant thought that nobody could possibly want to know me, because I have nothing to give. But why should I give my life to others? But then again, I don't even think I have anything to give myself. I'm starting to think I don't like people, but as soon as I read that thought straight through I relapse into weeping, because people are so hateful and wonderful and frustrating and confusing and mysterious and evil and good and ugly and beautiful... and... I can't live with them, and I can't live without them. But I DO, and there's no time to stop for thoughts like these, and such ideas do not help me at all, and they drive me crazy, or am I instead hideously sane?

Talking to a blog is not like talking to a person. I think the beauty of speaking one's mind to another - I mean a GOOD conversation in which they really get involved - is that they can speak back to you, and while this may give the illusion of helping to re-order one's thoughts, their responses are actually giving you more to think about, and thus forcing forgetfulness of one's own confusion. Whereas a diary lets thoughts flow out, but remain kept, and perhaps not better organised, but at least recorded. For posterity, or what-the-hell-ever.

And another thing. All the while I'm typing this, I notice that I don't just say what I think like other folks do... I speak of my thoughts (there's that word again) like they belong to someone else, objectively. Perhaps I am speaking what I feel, not what I think. Or perhaps I just don't believe what I'm saying. As I said, I don't understand myself. And this is the cynic in me who's taken over the podium. One thing I know is that I've never been so drawn into my negative thoughts before. I'm holding some of them closer to me and feeling them more keenly... like, I don't know... like an Evil Teddy Bear of Doom.

Anyway I'm just getting unreasonably depressed over the everyday-life things most people just get on with. I'm a basket-case, without even the option to crawl into my basket and never come out. And I've never run on reason, so bah humbug.

But that's enough bad thoughts for a while. I'm exhausted. I shall go and get drunkety.

~ posted by Anna @ 5:19 pm
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