Whatever feelings you have of me are about to be exploited by reading this. You have been warned.
It was almost a better Summer than last year. After a disastrous June, I bounced back with a well-received and enjoyable-to-do production of "Oklahoma", and was taking a week off from work shortly after. Of course, my week off couldn't be completely free, because "Evita" rehearsals were scheduled on Wednesday and Thursday, and for the sake of others, I decided to let it compromise my freedom. Well, Wednesday's rehearsal went fine. Thursday, however, didn't happen for me because, en route to the rehearsal, my van decided to hydroplane into a concrete guardrail, causing a car to hit me, sending me back into the concrete guardrail, and ultimately ruining my van (which I think I was close to paying off). As a sort of consolation, the accident somehow (and with little more than sore hands) spared my life.
Woo. Fucking. Hoo.
Of course the world won't get rid of me; I owe it too much money. Despite my innocence, another car was involved, so it officially became my fault. I knew they'd screw me. So much for my car, and so much for my wallet. And in an economy where we're all one car crash away from going into the red, it's the last thing I need.
I have supportive friends, but even then, it can't mask the hatred that I continue to have for myself, which has been amplified again by this event. Frankly, if not for the sake of other people missing me, I'd be fine with being dead. After my argument with a co-worker back in June, I had the epiphany that I care more for other people (and what I can do for them) than I do for myself. Let's be more blunt: I don't like me. I hate me. I am embarrassed by the majority of what I've done or had to go through (whether my fault or not) in order to become who I am or be where I am. I can't even look at myself in the mirror anymore. If not for Cindy and my friends, I'd be fine with not existing. I don't enjoy watching movies by myself. I barely enjoy being by myself, except for long hours in front of a PC. I can't organize myself, my objects, and my surroundings to the point where I consider it all in order. And what time do I have for it, what with a massively demanding and stressful job, and a theater hobby that I need in order to not only meet people, but also keep me from hating my job to a possibly violent extent. I'm simply disappointed by my very existence, and only get enjoyment from entertaining or being useful to others. I've lived with myself for over thirty years, and I want a god damn divorce. But, fearing where else to go after such a break-up, I stupidly remain alive.
So, don't worry, folks, I'll be here for a long time. After all, the enjoyment of (or with) others is too enticing for me. And at the same time, I get to torture myself by giving myself more and more reasons to live. Not that I hate life. I just hate living it as me. And since it's too late to go back to my pre-Fredonia college days and delete my presence while no one cared, my only option is to raise up everyone else's opinions of me and my work/usefulness/entertainment value until I crash and burn over the now-unavoidable conflicts with my own self-hatred, combined with the inevitable failure of meeting an increasing amount of emotional and other demands (and maybe even discovering that I'm not as important to people as I think I am, no matter how little I expect of anyone).
Oh, and this is the only time that you will hear me address this situation. Any other journal entries will be based on fact, and not feeling. Yes, I want your attention, but am also setting myself up to be embarrassed by it to the point where I can't speak of it anymore...which, I feel, does you a big favor. Maybe someday, I'll want you to be as tired of me as I am. But not now (I think). There's still a very weak part of my soul that wants me to be okay. I'll have to see what I can do about that....
Woo. Fucking. Hoo.
Of course the world won't get rid of me; I owe it too much money. Despite my innocence, another car was involved, so it officially became my fault. I knew they'd screw me. So much for my car, and so much for my wallet. And in an economy where we're all one car crash away from going into the red, it's the last thing I need.
I have supportive friends, but even then, it can't mask the hatred that I continue to have for myself, which has been amplified again by this event. Frankly, if not for the sake of other people missing me, I'd be fine with being dead. After my argument with a co-worker back in June, I had the epiphany that I care more for other people (and what I can do for them) than I do for myself. Let's be more blunt: I don't like me. I hate me. I am embarrassed by the majority of what I've done or had to go through (whether my fault or not) in order to become who I am or be where I am. I can't even look at myself in the mirror anymore. If not for Cindy and my friends, I'd be fine with not existing. I don't enjoy watching movies by myself. I barely enjoy being by myself, except for long hours in front of a PC. I can't organize myself, my objects, and my surroundings to the point where I consider it all in order. And what time do I have for it, what with a massively demanding and stressful job, and a theater hobby that I need in order to not only meet people, but also keep me from hating my job to a possibly violent extent. I'm simply disappointed by my very existence, and only get enjoyment from entertaining or being useful to others. I've lived with myself for over thirty years, and I want a god damn divorce. But, fearing where else to go after such a break-up, I stupidly remain alive.
So, don't worry, folks, I'll be here for a long time. After all, the enjoyment of (or with) others is too enticing for me. And at the same time, I get to torture myself by giving myself more and more reasons to live. Not that I hate life. I just hate living it as me. And since it's too late to go back to my pre-Fredonia college days and delete my presence while no one cared, my only option is to raise up everyone else's opinions of me and my work/usefulness/entertainment value until I crash and burn over the now-unavoidable conflicts with my own self-hatred, combined with the inevitable failure of meeting an increasing amount of emotional and other demands (and maybe even discovering that I'm not as important to people as I think I am, no matter how little I expect of anyone).
Oh, and this is the only time that you will hear me address this situation. Any other journal entries will be based on fact, and not feeling. Yes, I want your attention, but am also setting myself up to be embarrassed by it to the point where I can't speak of it anymore...which, I feel, does you a big favor. Maybe someday, I'll want you to be as tired of me as I am. But not now (I think). There's still a very weak part of my soul that wants me to be okay. I'll have to see what I can do about that....