When your psyche can be summed up in a cacophonous yowl of a song...
...you shouldn't subject people to even an abbreviated glimpse of it.
But that is why I never update, so fuck it. For the past few hours I've been catching up on all the online haunts I'd been exorcising, starting with bank statements and ending on my friends page after scenic stops at Facebook and Google. My friends page feels like I never left it, but Gretchen's recent entries struck a chord. Yes, lame and tea. Me too.
Gretchen probably forgot who I am, which is appropriate since I did too and I'm worth forgetting. Being neurotic and chronically tardy becomes everyone else's problem - I being the cause. And after waiting on me in the mornings I'm worth writing off. (This goes for the Davids too, and countless others - can I get a 'Fuck you'?)
So, well, the energy that accompanied my frenzied perfectionism has since gone into being a zombie. I read in a clinic waiting room magazine that very few people actually suffer from depression - the great majority of misery being the result of mere* disappointment. *Of course, the severity of disappointment, and its consequent anhedonia, would really depend on the severity of the original expectations. Perfectionism and disappointment - I ain't big enough for the both of them. So I just implode in roughly 900 square feet of pseudodomestica with a substitute baby in my lap, stroking his paws and sipping lemon tea. I have an amphetamine prescription to be able to do this much. I remember eight classes and four jobs and volunteering. I've abandoned them.
But just like those manic days, my mood isn't -my- problem. The problem doesn't happen with wasting my days warming the couch and the puppy. I'm too apathetic to be upset about that - time doesn't feel like a commodity anymore and Pupple is really fucking cuddly. I feel the problem happen when Jenn comes home and says the house feels sad, when my doctors frown and furrow their brows and order more tests, when well-intended inquiries about my wellbeing consistently yield the same monotonous response (I've taken up saying 'better' just to humor us), and when my unenthused countenance is a silent downer in social situations. I don't care about my mood. I care that other people do and I can't deliver.
I'm always a patient. And everyone around me has to shift to buffer and accommodate and hold me, from flippant fluctuations to eerie resolution to lucid and generalized loathing. The selfishly sick and self-absorbed. My self oozes and others absorb it. It's not about me at all, but it's all me. I am not suffering. I am being suffered by everyone else. And the closer they are, the more it hurts us both.
So yes, when the pitifully affected pathos of early Oberst matches a mood (how long does a mood have to last before it becomes a trait?), you shouldn't subject people to a barely-tenable and unabridged glimpse. But I'm a flasher.
Contrast and compare between the busy ones / and the ones who don’t care / until there is no one that you really know - / I drift through these days of appointments and promises made - / they will all end up broken and quickly replaced. / Weeks are slow, days drag on; / even practice and parties seem long. / I look for a corner or a quieter room - / on the stairs she grabs my arm, says 'What's up, where you been, is something wrong?' / and I try to just smile and say everything’s fine.
But that is why I never update, so fuck it. For the past few hours I've been catching up on all the online haunts I'd been exorcising, starting with bank statements and ending on my friends page after scenic stops at Facebook and Google. My friends page feels like I never left it, but Gretchen's recent entries struck a chord. Yes, lame and tea. Me too.
Gretchen probably forgot who I am, which is appropriate since I did too and I'm worth forgetting. Being neurotic and chronically tardy becomes everyone else's problem - I being the cause. And after waiting on me in the mornings I'm worth writing off. (This goes for the Davids too, and countless others - can I get a 'Fuck you'?)
So, well, the energy that accompanied my frenzied perfectionism has since gone into being a zombie. I read in a clinic waiting room magazine that very few people actually suffer from depression - the great majority of misery being the result of mere* disappointment. *Of course, the severity of disappointment, and its consequent anhedonia, would really depend on the severity of the original expectations. Perfectionism and disappointment - I ain't big enough for the both of them. So I just implode in roughly 900 square feet of pseudodomestica with a substitute baby in my lap, stroking his paws and sipping lemon tea. I have an amphetamine prescription to be able to do this much. I remember eight classes and four jobs and volunteering. I've abandoned them.
But just like those manic days, my mood isn't -my- problem. The problem doesn't happen with wasting my days warming the couch and the puppy. I'm too apathetic to be upset about that - time doesn't feel like a commodity anymore and Pupple is really fucking cuddly. I feel the problem happen when Jenn comes home and says the house feels sad, when my doctors frown and furrow their brows and order more tests, when well-intended inquiries about my wellbeing consistently yield the same monotonous response (I've taken up saying 'better' just to humor us), and when my unenthused countenance is a silent downer in social situations. I don't care about my mood. I care that other people do and I can't deliver.
I'm always a patient. And everyone around me has to shift to buffer and accommodate and hold me, from flippant fluctuations to eerie resolution to lucid and generalized loathing. The selfishly sick and self-absorbed. My self oozes and others absorb it. It's not about me at all, but it's all me. I am not suffering. I am being suffered by everyone else. And the closer they are, the more it hurts us both.
So yes, when the pitifully affected pathos of early Oberst matches a mood (how long does a mood have to last before it becomes a trait?), you shouldn't subject people to a barely-tenable and unabridged glimpse. But I'm a flasher.
Contrast and compare between the busy ones / and the ones who don’t care / until there is no one that you really know - / I drift through these days of appointments and promises made - / they will all end up broken and quickly replaced. / Weeks are slow, days drag on; / even practice and parties seem long. / I look for a corner or a quieter room - / on the stairs she grabs my arm, says 'What's up, where you been, is something wrong?' / and I try to just smile and say everything’s fine.