On depression
Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-BUMP-Fark.
That is the sound of me on the downward slide. Again.
Family have started to cotton onto it. I've been creeping away to my den more frequently, apparently. I should tell them if anything's wrong, apparently. I need company. Apparently.
I told them what was wrong. I've been completely honest with them. They just stopped asking because they don't want to think I'm still hung up on something so inconsequencial. Maybe it is. My mother is still a hypocrite. "It's not like me and your father."
On the contrary, Mother dearest. It's exactly like you and my father. Same ages. Same situations. Same connection. The only difference is I didn't want to suffocate him. So I stood back and he ended up drifting away anyway. I didn't try to force him to marry me. That's the difference.
So don't fucking smile at me when I stay quiet when you ask me what's wrong, and act like this is all some big charade for attention, or that I'm just growing into myself and need some kind of personal tragedy for that to happen. If you don't want to hear the answer, don't ask what the problem is.
I love my family. Sure I do. But I'm aware of the fact that I am different. I've always been different. Not just in terms of lifestyle. In temperment. In solitude, in company, in humour, in beliefs, in thoughts, in strengths, in weaknesses, in everything I can think of. That there is a shallow listing, but there's nothing I'm really similar to my family on. All we actually share is chromosomes. That's never bothered me all that much. There's a pride to be had in not being the same. But maybe, just sometimes, I can peel back the "Haha! I'm so cool and different from you Tories!" and actually accept that I want to be understood by my blood, because I don't want to have to be an alien in my own family.
In some ways I consider my friends more of a family than my biological ones. Because whatever we do to piss each other off, and however much we irritate each other with stupid jokes, and no matter how often I'm an irritating sod with a sort temper and a pissy attitude, we stick together, and we're there when we need each other. Chaz in particular. I've let myself rely on him when I haven't with anyone else - with Grim, because he had problems of his own to deal with, Karis for the same and Jess because she can just get over things. Or maybe she just pretends. But it's like nothing beats her down. Even living with her family - who are, I can say, eel-people to her - can't break her. She has magical powers. And hopefully I can say I was there for him too, and I'm not some misanthropic troll, and I can look after the people I love after all.
I don't even know what I'm trying to say anymore.
I'm still under pressure and I don't even know why half the time. There are obvious pressures. I can stay on top of them. But they're backed up by all these nameless, faceless worries that I can't put my finger on. Maybe there are alternate universes, and all of Me are busy going through personal breakdowns at the moment. Maybe all of my past lives, if I've had any, make me a predetermined worrier.
Urg.
I'm too inarticulate for all this shit.
What's the point?
What's the fucking point?
The phrase "Piss mittens" springs to mind.
x
That is the sound of me on the downward slide. Again.
Family have started to cotton onto it. I've been creeping away to my den more frequently, apparently. I should tell them if anything's wrong, apparently. I need company. Apparently.
I told them what was wrong. I've been completely honest with them. They just stopped asking because they don't want to think I'm still hung up on something so inconsequencial. Maybe it is. My mother is still a hypocrite. "It's not like me and your father."
On the contrary, Mother dearest. It's exactly like you and my father. Same ages. Same situations. Same connection. The only difference is I didn't want to suffocate him. So I stood back and he ended up drifting away anyway. I didn't try to force him to marry me. That's the difference.
So don't fucking smile at me when I stay quiet when you ask me what's wrong, and act like this is all some big charade for attention, or that I'm just growing into myself and need some kind of personal tragedy for that to happen. If you don't want to hear the answer, don't ask what the problem is.
I love my family. Sure I do. But I'm aware of the fact that I am different. I've always been different. Not just in terms of lifestyle. In temperment. In solitude, in company, in humour, in beliefs, in thoughts, in strengths, in weaknesses, in everything I can think of. That there is a shallow listing, but there's nothing I'm really similar to my family on. All we actually share is chromosomes. That's never bothered me all that much. There's a pride to be had in not being the same. But maybe, just sometimes, I can peel back the "Haha! I'm so cool and different from you Tories!" and actually accept that I want to be understood by my blood, because I don't want to have to be an alien in my own family.
In some ways I consider my friends more of a family than my biological ones. Because whatever we do to piss each other off, and however much we irritate each other with stupid jokes, and no matter how often I'm an irritating sod with a sort temper and a pissy attitude, we stick together, and we're there when we need each other. Chaz in particular. I've let myself rely on him when I haven't with anyone else - with Grim, because he had problems of his own to deal with, Karis for the same and Jess because she can just get over things. Or maybe she just pretends. But it's like nothing beats her down. Even living with her family - who are, I can say, eel-people to her - can't break her. She has magical powers. And hopefully I can say I was there for him too, and I'm not some misanthropic troll, and I can look after the people I love after all.
I don't even know what I'm trying to say anymore.
I'm still under pressure and I don't even know why half the time. There are obvious pressures. I can stay on top of them. But they're backed up by all these nameless, faceless worries that I can't put my finger on. Maybe there are alternate universes, and all of Me are busy going through personal breakdowns at the moment. Maybe all of my past lives, if I've had any, make me a predetermined worrier.
Urg.
I'm too inarticulate for all this shit.
What's the point?
What's the fucking point?
The phrase "Piss mittens" springs to mind.
x