Sunday, December 20, 2009

Trying to put my finger on it

I was writing Nostalgia. Here is what I wrote, and, because I can't put fancy italics and such on here, it will lack that very important element of this section.

I was trying to pinpoint just how rottenly ridiculous it is that I feel. There's lots of this sort of thing in Nostalgia to this point, and in my mind. Hopefully, if you understand or want to say anything, say something. And understand that I'm being perfectly honest in this. ^.^ I suppose many of you probably understand I am...


There's nothing more that I wish to do but to scream. I want to give up and scream, to go hysterical!

Doesn't anyone understand how in my present state, I am nothing but hysterical? I am! I really, really am! Just take it! But I can't let it out because of some strange force in me saying, 'This is life! This is life!' And what a stupid, confusing voice that is, force, whatever... it tells me so much what is not true.

It is not life!

I have thought everything that I go through is life. The deaths, the pain, every lonely feeling I felt, the shadow that overhung me because of being alone, a shadow of depression. I told myself for years that everything bad that happened to me was life. Pain is life- pain goes away, somehow. At some point you die. At some point the pain of a deep cut will go away. At some point the itch and sting of dry hands will go away. Sometime, it will all go away.

I wish everything … would show itself to me. That I would feel everything and realise I'm not alone, nor is this life. This fake room I'm in... this consciousness... is not a real consciousness.

HOW confusing it is. If I had only written this down ages ago so that it would be out of my head and when I did write it, it wouldn't be confusing.

My old self is... a lovely thing. It is furnished, finished, full and absolutely lively. But the consciousness, the little room that has been made with me locked inside is not the real me. This room, with only a door, a window and a picture on the wall, is not me. The picture doesn't even characterise something- it looks so fake, I don't know what it is- it's some nightmare from when I was a child with a fever. This room is a plague and torment. I can't see outside, and the room has blank, white walls and a plain floor and ceiling, a small room, and useless room. It's a cold room, and there's not a spark of life in it.

This is where I live. It's a prison- I am locked in it. I can't get out by window or by door. It's all I know, all my little world has.

It is this way, I think- long ago, some people would tell me that I couldn't do something I said I thought I could, or that I wanted to try to do. For years I thought that I couldn't do some things, but when I was alone, I fought it out to myself, thinking that yes, yes, I could do it! I knew I could, and if I couldn't do it, I wouldn't be me!

The 'wouldn't be me' was a sort of insanity. If I were not what made up my character- those things I really thought I could do, or that I was -I would be insane. Blank. Like a clean slate that had never been touched or used. I wouldn't be touched by God's hands in His great work of pottery. I would be empty of anything, devoid of any sort of being. I would have a spirit, but an unformed spirit, something without character, virtue, feeling, or anything. It's so strange... but it's that everything that makes me up weaves itself in the rest of the things and they're all intertwined, and if one thing is gone, the whole thing isn't right, can't be- it falls apart and scatters, and somehow... I am nothing. I am plain.

This room is the plainness. It's a confusion of not being able to do, feel, think, or anything. I can't wrap my mind around the simplest ideas, and when I try, I just go giddy with the dizziness of the effort. I don't even know that I try very hard, but I know that I can't try. I can't even try.

O, I HATE it. I hate it so much I could scream, but I've told myself for years that, as I got worse, this was all life. I got 'used' to it. In a very stupid, grim way. A way I just abhor with so much of my being I want to dash it and kill it... and watch it suffer.

I just... I don't know that I could do that, if I were clear- I'm too nice and all -but I feel so angry at it. It's a slave. Hateful.

But it is how I live... and I can do nothing more. I can't do anything. I don't want to even think about it, and I want comfort somewhere... some way to forget that this is all so bad. It somehow isn't, and I know that because this fake me, that isn't me, isn't REALLY me, and sometimes I know that, sort of, and wish I could knock it down and look at the real me, at the beautiful hangings, fire, and pictures, and furniture, and rugs, and everything that a lovely, furnished home I would like would have. My home, sort of.

My mind.

My mind is lost to insanity... a... slave has taken over my mind. I can't even push it down, and the confusedness kills me. I know it makes sense, but I can't even let this make sense to me. I have to write down my thoughts as soon as I think them, because they pass away, and whatever words come out and describe them when I just say them after just thinking them, those words stay for now until I can later read through this and change the word choice and all. I can't change it if I try. I can't understand what I said.

I can't even get a vague impression.

Who has this? Who in the world understands this? Who cares? Everyone thinks I'm being a silly little thing, I suppose. Anyone would. But WHY can't people just make a leap of faith? Especially Christians who have to believe in something they cannot see. O, useless life! Just throw me away if you don't like me! It couldn't be worse, could it?

If I were to talk to someone, I would be sarcastic and sardonic right now and likely rather morbid, saying 'jokes' … sarcastic jokes at people that are truly despicable. I feel like letting it out that way when I am so annoyed and frustrated so that I could tear my hair out if I didn't have an automatic idea that it isn't the thing to do... I don't do drastic things because all my life I've been told and I've believed that I shouldn't do them.

But I should scream. But I can't scream! I'm so used to suppressing screams, crying, everything, so that I have silenced myself and I sometimes am jovial. Well, I don't feel jovial when I'm so angry. I suppress the anger within me, though, so that sometimes it bursts out and other times it doesn't. I'm used to looking, when I'm angry, just serious and depressed- never smiling, but just looking kind of... useless. Thoughtful. But how awful it is... that I've always hidden myself.

Oh, I WISH I could scream. Could someone take me and let me? Could someone drag me away, pull me out of this?

No, there's no one to do it.

Well, thank you- I'll keep on wandering and killing myself until I die.

God sie mid eow.

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