Saturday, March 17, 2012

fear.

You know that late-night text that you send that you know you shouldn't send and that compels you to click 'send' very quickly before you can talk yourself out of sending it? I have that. I just did that. Why, I don't know. It's not as if anything good will come of it. I dunno, man. I just really fucking miss you, that's all. I shouldn't, I know I shouldn't. But you were wonderful. You were wonderful to me. Until you stopped being wonderful and became horrible. But I would still do anything for you. And that makes me the fool, of course it does. So I'm feeling all kinds of emotions right now.

I miss you because you were wonderful. I'm angry at you for what you did. I'm angry at myself for missing you in spite of what you did. And I feel awful. And I can't sleep because my brain is going a million miles an hour and there's no one here to stop it and I don't know how to stop it by myself. I never know how to stop it, how to deal with this. And that's always been the problem, hasn't it? That's what we're trying to fix. That's what we've been trying to fix for six years. But nothing's changed. How is that supposed to make me feel? Of course it's my own fault, I know that, but that doesn't make me feel any better. It's my own fault that I am this way, that I feel this way, and I am powerless to do anything about it. And that sounds defeatist but it's just my personality – I have been trying for six years to fix my life but some aspect of my personality ends up getting in the way and I make no progress at all. Do you ever feel like you're not supposed to be happy? I feel like that sometimes.

Sometimes I am trying so desperately to be happy, and other times I am happy, and then I go back to being sad again so I figure it wasn't real happiness in the first place and maybe I'm just destined to be sad or numb or something. But then I think that happiness is a fluid thing, it's not a constant. It's not even a thing, it's an ideal we make up in our minds but it doesn't exist. All we have is self-acceptance. And I definitely don't have that.

Some horrible part of me doesn't want me to succeed. There's this awful, self-sabotaging bit of me that wants to thwart everything I do. And I feel powerless to stop it. It's like I've spent my whole life not liking myself, so my brain is used to that. It's familiar, and familiar seems to equate to ‘good’. If I do something positive or productive, that will mean that I'll have to give myself credit for it, and that would imply liking myself, or at least tolerating myself. And I can't do that. So any positive thing that I do, I attribute to someone or something else: a fluke, another person's efforts, not me. And if I do admit to doing something, I won't give myself credit – I'll justify it by saying that I had to do it, it was necessary. Or I'll get angry with myself for not doing it sooner or better.

I mean, I thought I looked well at the C&S ball, but the more I analyse the photos, the more I notice how fat I am, how round-faced and how asymmetrical I am. I should be skinny but I'm not, because if I feel sad, it's easier to console myself with food than to actually deal with my emotions. And that food not only fuels my body, but also my self-loathing. It provides fodder for my hating. And I do enjoy hating myself. Well, I mean, I must. Otherwise I'd stop doing it, right? Maybe not. Maybe it's a learned behaviour. It's a habit that I can't and won't and don’t want to break. It's scary, the unknown, the possibility of actually liking myself. I'm terrified. I don't know what I'm scared of exactly, but, man, I am terrified. What if I do it wrong? What if it’s not real? What if I’m lying to myself? Worse, what if I relapse into feeling like this again and it will all have been for nothing? Again. Worse, what if I become arrogant? I mean, I’m already arrogant but it’s not real arrogance – it’s a thin veil that barely conceals my low self-esteem. Worse, what if I stop being funny? I base my sense of humour and my quips on the premise that I am a farce of a human being. If I start taking myself seriously and actually liking myself, what will I joke about?

And now I hate myself for feeling like this, I hate myself for hating myself. I’m sure there’s some sort of bittersweet irony in that but I don’t see it.

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