I think I need to move out.
I always feel hemmed in here. I don't know what to do, and constantly feel as though I must be doing a million things wrong. Which is true, if the statements of everyone else in the house are true. I know that I am constantly wrong here. Constantly evil. Constantly inferior.
Which is fine. I think that this is the truth, and I suppose I should do something about it. Get a job with the goal of moving out. Learn to drive with the goal of moving out. Move out with the goal of becoming human. I can always rely on various family members as a safety net and still be less of a burden than I am now. And I hate being a burden, so this seems like a decent plan.
It must be possible to live. I can't imagine it not being so. I don't spend money. I want to, but I don't. Not when I know I can't. So budgeting my life shouldn't be a problem. If nothing else, I am good at resisting temptation. Despite my protestations to the contrary. (Oh, Oscar Wilde, how I love thee...)
I don't think it would solve everything. I know it would cause a host of new problems, but.
It would be something other than stagnation. And something has to change.
I can't live here much longer. I can't go on thinking I'm some inferior being. I can't continue being some inferior being.
Plans are nothing. I never follow them. If I'm going to do anything, I need to just...do it. My personality demands it. Action or eternal stagnation. And I think I'd rather be bled dry from exhaustion than to stay in this position of absolute nothingness.
I need to stop being afraid. And moving out would be running away from my biggest fear (my family), but at least then I'd be out. At least then I'd have something real to worry about, instead of petty neuroses.
Besides, if no one's around I imagine I'd become better friends with my bass, which would definitely be a good thing. After all, I don't have to break off completely. Just mostly. Just enough to not be afraid anymore.
revoless.
3:51 a.m.
September 21, 2003.
Listening to: Bright Eyes.
Depression talk. Not much new. Venting or Selections from conversations with a mother