Further Junk
2002-11-22 � 5:16 p.m.

Um...no, really. I *am* a bad person.

Just because I'm emotionally broken doesn't mean I'm irrational. Yes, I feel bad. Yes, I know that that colors the way I see things. But you know what? I can, and have, felt bad and *not* left emotional ruin in my wake, once or twice. But I know it when I see it -- it's pretty damn obvious stuff.

It's the look in someone's eye. It's the sound of their voice. It's the tears. It's the stammering.

These are not subtle things. I'm telling you: I do things to people. It's a way to do things to myself.

And here's another thing that no one reading about me through my own cracked lens could know: no one in my real life knows that I am a depressive freakazoid.

I can see you all shaking your heads. "Oh, tsk! He's so delusional. In his own little world...they have to know. You can't hide that." But it's true. My boss knows because I told him. My roommate knows because he was my best friend for about fourteen years, and I told him. My family knows because I never played any face games with them.

But everyone else? Nope. They don't know. I don't show them broken me, I show them hard, confident, well spoken and articulate me. And even when I do sick, twisted, mean, and irrational shit to them, they don't get it, and that only makes what I do worse.

Part of my problem with feeling this way is that it is at complete odds with the face I wear out into the world. Heh. "Part." As if there weren't a million and one parts, all connected and tied together.

And I'm a bad person because I still act this way towards people. I still pretend it�s going to be different, that I am different, that more is possible...

Even when I know it isn't true.

Now then. I'm in a bad patch right now. Sorry 'bout that. I don't mean to get people riled up. Don't be riled up -- this shit ain't worth it. This is long-term stuff, and it's my own scary monkey to carry around. I really, really, really, REALLY don't expect commentary on it...I'm not going to say don't do that, because I know people feel compelled to. But I'm not going to skip around it anymore either -- it's out in then open, for better or worse.

Yes, that makes this dump once again just like every other sixteen year-old's angst-filled goth poetry fest. Too damn bad. Yes, it's boring and depressing and cumbersome to read about. Sorry. If you want fluffy, pithy observations, you know where to find them. If you want rants and screeds and hellfire, you know where to find that too.

I started deleting a bunch of my old entries (and boy is that a cumbersome process) because they were full of this kind of doom and gloom and I was ashamed of them. Not because I felt any differently, but because I was in the midst of trying to pretend, here at least, that I wasn't that kind of person.

Now I'm back again -- full-circle and no checkered flag to show me the race is over. So it goes.

It's just me. And even though I don't *fit* -- myself, my body, my life, my world -- it's what I've got, and so it must be dealt with (even if that means ignoring myself until I go away).

Desperate times indeed. I do wish I wasn't such a loser, but not enough to do anything about it.

-t

Currently Aurally Inducing: Hot Hot Heat, Le Le Low
Selection of the Lyrical Vocabulary: "My left back speaker's blown...le-le-le-le-le-low!"

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