The pleasure that my sadness brings:

I've come to the conclusion that I can't be happy.

I can go through manic periods. Sure, no problem. And I always think they're the be-all end-all. I always think I've beaten the icky cycles and I am, in fact, a happy little duckling. Well, my mania ended yesterday, and I've been thinking.

The biggest issue, I think, is that I won't allow myself to be happy. Any time I come close to anything that makes me happy it feels absolutely wrong, and I run away. I push people I love away from me. I don't go to places that make me happy. (I'm not going out tonight because it's too long of a car trip and I don't trust myself to drive that far [yet]. It's throwing me off because, first, it's a holiday, and second, it's the first weekend I haven't gone to a show in quite a while. And I know of two that I could be choosing between tonight. Oh well.)

I've gotten off topic.

I don't know if there's too much more to say. I think I like being miserable. I like self-destructing. There's no other explanation for my isolating myself and making these states happen year after year. There's no other explanation for my intense lack of comfort whenever any love is shown towards me. (The pictures of me on my grandmother's wall have unsettled me for some time. Now that I'm living here I realised why: There were never any pictures on the wall in my mother's houses.)

I never had a childhood friend. I never even had a childhood home. People talk and write about these things, and I never have anything to compare the concepts to. I had a stepfather for ten years. I had a mother (albeit detached and self-absorbed, however well-intending) for eighteen. A brother for sixteen. I've only been more than an ephemeral flash in the pan for two people in my lifetime, and the fact is that I don't know how to be anything else. I don't know how to stick around. I don't know how to settle. I don't know how to let go and be happy. I know how to change. I know how to leave. And I know how to twist misery into something that seems, at first glance, beautiful and logical.

Is it wrong of me to think that the last bit makes everything worth it?

revoless.
4:05 p.m.
October 31, 2003.

comments? 0.

nonsense or I'm going to hell

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