The Prisoner
I remember when I visited Live Journal several times a week, eager to spill my emotions into cyberspace for myself and my friends to read. I used to be good at it too, and I enjoyed it. But times are different now. I'm older and I've taken a lot of damage in my years, which has led to an epic-level tolerance for emotional torment. Beyond that my social circle is no longer even a thing. I've done a lot of moving, and technology has followed suit. Live Journal's UI has changed, nobody uses AIM anymore (if it even exists), and nobody cares what I write. I realize only two things have remained the same since I first started posting journal entries here: my iTunes still plays music in the background and I am still hurting inside.
That pain, however, is dull, which is arguably an improvement over the incessant misery I used to live with. Depression lingers in the background like a song playing in the next room muffled by walls figurative or literal. When I focus on it, I realize how sad I am and I feel my tear ducts respond, eager to shed their burdens, but the tears won't fall unless I really try. I have to let go of my constraints, loose these shackles designed to protect me from my destructive emotional side, allow myself to feel things as I sit here alone with nobody to judge me for it.
It's not as easy as it sounds. In my youth I used to cry a lot and I got reprimanded for it whether from classmates or my father. I was told boys don't cry, that it wasn't appropriate or cool. So I cried in private and whenever I could. I named my waterfalls after the forces that drove them, and I always felt better once the river ran dry. So why can't I cry now?
The answer: who cares? Nobody is reading this. Nobody is interested in my pointless dribble, and who can blame them? I don't. Furthermore, everything that has happened to me is my own damn fault. My sadness stems from being let down and betrayed too many times by people I loved and trusted, and when that happens I am more disappointed and angry than hurt, and yet my wisdom has taught me to keep that shit to myself for fear of behaving ineffectively. I am left with a general sense of despondency. Why bother? What's the point? Who can I trust? I know these are questions that many people ask, because they are good questions.
That pain, however, is dull, which is arguably an improvement over the incessant misery I used to live with. Depression lingers in the background like a song playing in the next room muffled by walls figurative or literal. When I focus on it, I realize how sad I am and I feel my tear ducts respond, eager to shed their burdens, but the tears won't fall unless I really try. I have to let go of my constraints, loose these shackles designed to protect me from my destructive emotional side, allow myself to feel things as I sit here alone with nobody to judge me for it.
It's not as easy as it sounds. In my youth I used to cry a lot and I got reprimanded for it whether from classmates or my father. I was told boys don't cry, that it wasn't appropriate or cool. So I cried in private and whenever I could. I named my waterfalls after the forces that drove them, and I always felt better once the river ran dry. So why can't I cry now?
The answer: who cares? Nobody is reading this. Nobody is interested in my pointless dribble, and who can blame them? I don't. Furthermore, everything that has happened to me is my own damn fault. My sadness stems from being let down and betrayed too many times by people I loved and trusted, and when that happens I am more disappointed and angry than hurt, and yet my wisdom has taught me to keep that shit to myself for fear of behaving ineffectively. I am left with a general sense of despondency. Why bother? What's the point? Who can I trust? I know these are questions that many people ask, because they are good questions.