It's been awhile.
The hit counter on my other journal hasn't moved at all for the last three entries. It's hard for even me to understand why I feel abandoned, sad, lonely and relieved a bit all at the same time.
I know. I don't get it either.
I know why people stopped reading. No one wants to read the boring details of my life, and that's all I have left that I'm allowed to share. The interesting stuff, the juice, I can't write about that. Not anymore. All that's left is mundane crap about school. My kids asked me to lay off telling stories about them, so I complied. The personal details of my life are too private, these days.
Plus, since I've been in school, I see my writing differently. I can't seem to remember how to write for the joy of it, for the laughter, the memories, the purging... none of it. All I can do is keep trying to write something that would get an A on the technicalities and mechanics. What comes out ends up being sucky on both sides of the spectrum.
Don't worry, world. I don't blame you for giving up. I hate what I write now, too. I just hang on to the knowledge that everything comes and goes in cycles... and this is one of them. This bad writing, this boring, who the hell is that? and why do we care? crap I've been recording, it'll slip away, eventually. The old me will re-emerge. The me that didn't care about mechanics or comma splices or incomplete or run-on sentences, only the emotion, the story, the let me show you so vividly you can't help but see it in spite of the mistakes writer, she'll find her way home again. Someday. Right after I learn how to balance the perfectionist student who pressures herself so much she can't hope to ever feel successful with the yearning writer hiding from that crazy person that came and took over the body and mind.
By then I reckon I'll have to find new readers, but maybe that's a good thing? I keep telling myself that, anyway. I figure if anyone is left by now, they're the people who genuinely cared to begin with. And to be honest, I've given nothing to anyone lately, so I deserve to be left alone. It isn't easy battling depression alone, and sometimes no matter how hard I try, I can't help but shut down to a degree while I just get through it. And that's what I've done. I've shut down, hidden, avoided what I couldn't spare the energy for because I needed all my energy just to get out of bed, function throughout the day, and not quit anything vital.
I'm sorry if my lack of correspondence gave anyone the impression I no longer care. I miss everyone. I just didn't want to subject anyone to my total lack of enthusiasm, and I haven't had it in me to pretend to be myself. *shrug* I've been a downer.
Cycles. It's all cycles, and I knew I'd cycle up. All it really took is waking up three consecutive days in a row without crying out in pain. Taking a deep breath without agony that forces you to stop breathing? Ecstasy. You can see how that would cheer a downer right the hell up.
In any case, I'm off to work. I hope that whatever future job I take will be as pleasurable as this one is.
Peace.
I know. I don't get it either.
I know why people stopped reading. No one wants to read the boring details of my life, and that's all I have left that I'm allowed to share. The interesting stuff, the juice, I can't write about that. Not anymore. All that's left is mundane crap about school. My kids asked me to lay off telling stories about them, so I complied. The personal details of my life are too private, these days.
Plus, since I've been in school, I see my writing differently. I can't seem to remember how to write for the joy of it, for the laughter, the memories, the purging... none of it. All I can do is keep trying to write something that would get an A on the technicalities and mechanics. What comes out ends up being sucky on both sides of the spectrum.
Don't worry, world. I don't blame you for giving up. I hate what I write now, too. I just hang on to the knowledge that everything comes and goes in cycles... and this is one of them. This bad writing, this boring, who the hell is that? and why do we care? crap I've been recording, it'll slip away, eventually. The old me will re-emerge. The me that didn't care about mechanics or comma splices or incomplete or run-on sentences, only the emotion, the story, the let me show you so vividly you can't help but see it in spite of the mistakes writer, she'll find her way home again. Someday. Right after I learn how to balance the perfectionist student who pressures herself so much she can't hope to ever feel successful with the yearning writer hiding from that crazy person that came and took over the body and mind.
By then I reckon I'll have to find new readers, but maybe that's a good thing? I keep telling myself that, anyway. I figure if anyone is left by now, they're the people who genuinely cared to begin with. And to be honest, I've given nothing to anyone lately, so I deserve to be left alone. It isn't easy battling depression alone, and sometimes no matter how hard I try, I can't help but shut down to a degree while I just get through it. And that's what I've done. I've shut down, hidden, avoided what I couldn't spare the energy for because I needed all my energy just to get out of bed, function throughout the day, and not quit anything vital.
I'm sorry if my lack of correspondence gave anyone the impression I no longer care. I miss everyone. I just didn't want to subject anyone to my total lack of enthusiasm, and I haven't had it in me to pretend to be myself. *shrug* I've been a downer.
Cycles. It's all cycles, and I knew I'd cycle up. All it really took is waking up three consecutive days in a row without crying out in pain. Taking a deep breath without agony that forces you to stop breathing? Ecstasy. You can see how that would cheer a downer right the hell up.
In any case, I'm off to work. I hope that whatever future job I take will be as pleasurable as this one is.
Peace.