Substance.
Sometimes I forget this is my journal. Ever think it's kind of fucked up that we have these things, but we censor ourselves so much because we know who reads them? I mean . . . what's the point? It's just another way to put a certain face forward to the world (or your friends, in a smaller sense) and make them think what you want them to. Either that, or you're reduced to vagueness and not naming names to avoid hurt feelings and note wars and bullshit that we should've gotten over forever ago.
That's why I never -really really- update. But you know . . . fuck that. Fuck it in it's stupid ass with a big spiked dildo. I feel like talking, and you can read or not, but you've been warned that I don't feel like pulling any punches or being less than honest. I'm not attacking, I'm just talking, so don't get defensive.
I don't know how to feel about anything. Or anybody. Or very many people. Or something. Fuck. I've gone through phases lately where I'm extremely angry at some people, mostly my ex husband. Then I've been okay. Then I've wanted to push housemates down the stairs and hole up somewhere and not have to see anyone for days. And then I've been okay again. So I don't know what that means. I've been trying to project an image of stability to people, and I'm not sure why. To feel strong, I guess. To avoid insincere "hey you can always talk to me" and to not bother Robert with it too much. He's patient, but he's still human. And I'm sure listening to me cry for no apparent reason after a long day of fucking around with cars isn't on the list of his most favorite things to do. I'm not saying I'm always a wreck, just more than I let anybody know.
I've been trained not to be a burden. If my mom couldn't help me with a problem right away, she'd get frustrated. My dad would dole out advice, and then he was done listening. My brother still can't pull his head out of his ass enough to realize there's other real people in the world, so that's somewhere I didn't go. So I learned to just keep it to myself. To cry in the shower where nobody would hear me and not handle my own problems. This was all reinforced with my longest and most substantial relationship. From my perspective, any emotion I felt and expressed that didn't jive with how I was expected to act . . . was me being irrational. Everything from being entertained by something unworthy straight through being angry or sad. If you deny a person -their- most basic emotions, tell them their instinctual reactions are wrong and they believe you . . . it's very confusing. So I kept that to myself too. I once again cried in the shower and spent an inordinate amount of time at Wal Mart so I wouldn't have to go home. So I don't talk to many people about the bad stuff. About the dark parts of me that are neatly tucked away and my problem only. I can talk about things that happened, but not so much how I felt about them. What they did to me.
But since this isn't aimed at anyone specific . . . since I'm just typing to type and purge and get it out . . . I'm not purposefully burdening anyone. Or so I can fool myself into thinking. So hey, here's some random shitty stuff about me.
Being interrupted when I'm focused on something drives me insane. And it happens constantly in this house, which makes me want to throw rocks at peoples' heads. My sex drive is stronger than Robert's. Or at least, the desire happens more often, and being turned down makes me feel bad about myself. I can rationalize it all I want, that's the feeling in my stomach that I get when he says not tonight, baby. I feel really sad that some people have bred; it makes me fear for the future of humanity. But no way I can say anything. Sometimes, I still look at myself in the mirror and wonder what makes me so unlovable. Then I can list off a dozen reasons to myself, which doesn't help. I fall in love so easy. Somebody I still really care about very much is still out of my reach and taken. And I'm scared that Robert's just filler, so I won't feel so alone. But I know that's not completely true, so that just adds to the confusion. I find myself mistrustful of most people, and the unfortunate part is, a lot of them have proven themselves untrustworthy. I feel like a faker when I try to look pretty, and that no one's convinced. Sometimes I fantasize about ditching life and going out to walk and find myself. But I'm worried that I won't find anything. I don't feel like anybody will understand any of this, so I don't tell anyone. Except you guys, now.
There's good stuff too, I guess. I can laugh at myself more, at life more. I still love to drive backroads at night with the windows down and the radio up. And I've got a better car to do it in, so I don't feel like I'm about to die at every curve. I've upgraded jobs, cars, mates, about to do it on living quarters. And I'm not always in this kind of mood. Not by far. I'm not as cripplingly shy as I used to be, I feel more capable than I have at any other time in my life.
So what does all this mean? Fucked if I know. Like I said, I'm just talking. I feel a little better now, and fuck you if you've got anything bad to say about it.
That's why I never -really really- update. But you know . . . fuck that. Fuck it in it's stupid ass with a big spiked dildo. I feel like talking, and you can read or not, but you've been warned that I don't feel like pulling any punches or being less than honest. I'm not attacking, I'm just talking, so don't get defensive.
I don't know how to feel about anything. Or anybody. Or very many people. Or something. Fuck. I've gone through phases lately where I'm extremely angry at some people, mostly my ex husband. Then I've been okay. Then I've wanted to push housemates down the stairs and hole up somewhere and not have to see anyone for days. And then I've been okay again. So I don't know what that means. I've been trying to project an image of stability to people, and I'm not sure why. To feel strong, I guess. To avoid insincere "hey you can always talk to me" and to not bother Robert with it too much. He's patient, but he's still human. And I'm sure listening to me cry for no apparent reason after a long day of fucking around with cars isn't on the list of his most favorite things to do. I'm not saying I'm always a wreck, just more than I let anybody know.
I've been trained not to be a burden. If my mom couldn't help me with a problem right away, she'd get frustrated. My dad would dole out advice, and then he was done listening. My brother still can't pull his head out of his ass enough to realize there's other real people in the world, so that's somewhere I didn't go. So I learned to just keep it to myself. To cry in the shower where nobody would hear me and not handle my own problems. This was all reinforced with my longest and most substantial relationship. From my perspective, any emotion I felt and expressed that didn't jive with how I was expected to act . . . was me being irrational. Everything from being entertained by something unworthy straight through being angry or sad. If you deny a person -their- most basic emotions, tell them their instinctual reactions are wrong and they believe you . . . it's very confusing. So I kept that to myself too. I once again cried in the shower and spent an inordinate amount of time at Wal Mart so I wouldn't have to go home. So I don't talk to many people about the bad stuff. About the dark parts of me that are neatly tucked away and my problem only. I can talk about things that happened, but not so much how I felt about them. What they did to me.
But since this isn't aimed at anyone specific . . . since I'm just typing to type and purge and get it out . . . I'm not purposefully burdening anyone. Or so I can fool myself into thinking. So hey, here's some random shitty stuff about me.
Being interrupted when I'm focused on something drives me insane. And it happens constantly in this house, which makes me want to throw rocks at peoples' heads. My sex drive is stronger than Robert's. Or at least, the desire happens more often, and being turned down makes me feel bad about myself. I can rationalize it all I want, that's the feeling in my stomach that I get when he says not tonight, baby. I feel really sad that some people have bred; it makes me fear for the future of humanity. But no way I can say anything. Sometimes, I still look at myself in the mirror and wonder what makes me so unlovable. Then I can list off a dozen reasons to myself, which doesn't help. I fall in love so easy. Somebody I still really care about very much is still out of my reach and taken. And I'm scared that Robert's just filler, so I won't feel so alone. But I know that's not completely true, so that just adds to the confusion. I find myself mistrustful of most people, and the unfortunate part is, a lot of them have proven themselves untrustworthy. I feel like a faker when I try to look pretty, and that no one's convinced. Sometimes I fantasize about ditching life and going out to walk and find myself. But I'm worried that I won't find anything. I don't feel like anybody will understand any of this, so I don't tell anyone. Except you guys, now.
There's good stuff too, I guess. I can laugh at myself more, at life more. I still love to drive backroads at night with the windows down and the radio up. And I've got a better car to do it in, so I don't feel like I'm about to die at every curve. I've upgraded jobs, cars, mates, about to do it on living quarters. And I'm not always in this kind of mood. Not by far. I'm not as cripplingly shy as I used to be, I feel more capable than I have at any other time in my life.
So what does all this mean? Fucked if I know. Like I said, I'm just talking. I feel a little better now, and fuck you if you've got anything bad to say about it.