Happy Birthday anyways...
Not mine, it's just one more thing I'm not allowed to tell her. Her birthday is this weekend. I don't feel like explaining how I feel about that right now.
I'm fairly certain my subconscious is enjoying my random bouts of depression, interspersed as they are between long spells of fuzzy gray nothingness. That every dream that I manage to remember the next morning has had a consistent theme lately has to be an indication of something, anyways.
I'm supposed to be thinking about what I believe are the qualities that a good person has, and why I don't believe I possess those qualities. Or in simpler terms, why I think I am a bad person. Which is putting it mildly really. It sounds easy enough, but I'm actually having some trouble putting it into words.
I wish I had a better understanding of how other people process their emotions. Or even had some experience doing so differently. But even now I look inside and see the empty calm center amidst the swirling storm clouds that are all of the negative feelings trying to exert some influence. I can see them, or perceive them, however it should be said. I sense them there, but they are an outside force, tangible and alien. They are strangers in this land. It doesn't feel right to be so aware of every feeling I have. It doesn't feel right that I know I should be unhappy, that I should be miserable and lonely and everything else all the little voices tell me a normal person would be feeling right now, yet I am still contained. I sigh and shake my head, and go about my day, and sometimes I wonder at my own foolishness for even giving any thought to what has passed and will likely never be again.
But I am conflicted. I don't know how to put it. Brief moments flash by where I am completely exposed to every feeling and thought that I usually shut out so completely. Dreams and moments of clarity, realizations of dates and anniversary, coming across some memento of our time together that deep down holds a significance beyond my ability to express or even fully comprehend. I try not to look at calendars. I try not to think about how much time has passed. Part of it is this nagging voice in my head telling me that this is not how a strong person would be feeling. That my inability to just stop doing this to myself is just another indicator of how flawed and terrible I am as a human being. It's another brick to add to my wall of personal failures.
Sometimes I feel like a fraud. Like everything I am feeling is a lie. That because this hasn't driven me to complete self-destruction must mean that it isn't really. Do I really feel these things only because I want to, or because I think I am supposed to be feeling this way? That actually sounds kind of stupid as I read it back. Whatever.
I want to be miserable. I want the misery to dominate my life. I want to be consumed by it. I want to burn out, to spiral downward and crash. I want to feel something, ANYTHING as deeply as I felt EVERYTHING when she was in my life.
Real living is over. Right now I'm just dying too slowly.
Not mine, it's just one more thing I'm not allowed to tell her. Her birthday is this weekend. I don't feel like explaining how I feel about that right now.
I'm fairly certain my subconscious is enjoying my random bouts of depression, interspersed as they are between long spells of fuzzy gray nothingness. That every dream that I manage to remember the next morning has had a consistent theme lately has to be an indication of something, anyways.
I'm supposed to be thinking about what I believe are the qualities that a good person has, and why I don't believe I possess those qualities. Or in simpler terms, why I think I am a bad person. Which is putting it mildly really. It sounds easy enough, but I'm actually having some trouble putting it into words.
I wish I had a better understanding of how other people process their emotions. Or even had some experience doing so differently. But even now I look inside and see the empty calm center amidst the swirling storm clouds that are all of the negative feelings trying to exert some influence. I can see them, or perceive them, however it should be said. I sense them there, but they are an outside force, tangible and alien. They are strangers in this land. It doesn't feel right to be so aware of every feeling I have. It doesn't feel right that I know I should be unhappy, that I should be miserable and lonely and everything else all the little voices tell me a normal person would be feeling right now, yet I am still contained. I sigh and shake my head, and go about my day, and sometimes I wonder at my own foolishness for even giving any thought to what has passed and will likely never be again.
But I am conflicted. I don't know how to put it. Brief moments flash by where I am completely exposed to every feeling and thought that I usually shut out so completely. Dreams and moments of clarity, realizations of dates and anniversary, coming across some memento of our time together that deep down holds a significance beyond my ability to express or even fully comprehend. I try not to look at calendars. I try not to think about how much time has passed. Part of it is this nagging voice in my head telling me that this is not how a strong person would be feeling. That my inability to just stop doing this to myself is just another indicator of how flawed and terrible I am as a human being. It's another brick to add to my wall of personal failures.
Sometimes I feel like a fraud. Like everything I am feeling is a lie. That because this hasn't driven me to complete self-destruction must mean that it isn't really. Do I really feel these things only because I want to, or because I think I am supposed to be feeling this way? That actually sounds kind of stupid as I read it back. Whatever.
I want to be miserable. I want the misery to dominate my life. I want to be consumed by it. I want to burn out, to spiral downward and crash. I want to feel something, ANYTHING as deeply as I felt EVERYTHING when she was in my life.
Real living is over. Right now I'm just dying too slowly.