1/17/09

It’s a bad time of year.  I hate winter.  I hate being cold.  I hate that it’s always dark.

Words are amazingly inadequate, and I have this funny feeling that no one’s even taken me seriously. 

That’s not entirely their fault, though.  Because I deceived Them  and if my manipulations had had any other effect I would have been…well…mortified, I guess.  But that doesn’t stop the sick dread that fills me when I see exactly how well I have been performing, when I see the plans They have made for a Me that does not really exist.  I am not the person They think I am, and so They react to the Me that I have created, and it’s not their fault. 

I can say that I’ve never been happy, that I hate myself, that I want to die, and They laugh  because They think I’m kidding, and that’s My  fault.  I wanted Them to think that I was strong, a fucking superhero, because the truth is so abhorrent and inconvenient that I couldn’t face it myself, let alone have Them deal with it.

Inconvenient is the best word for it, really.  It is inconvenient to be a suicidal self-loathing schizoid masochist.  It’s a pain to deal with.  And why should I make anyone else deal with it, when it would be such an inconvenience for Them?  Because if They knew, then They would feel obligated to do  something, and They would worry and fret and what right do I have to take Their peace of mind?  What fucking right do I have?

Which all sounds so nice and self-sacrificing, but I’m selfish deep down inside.  And I am scared.  And horrified.  And sickened.  By this monster  that I have become.  I am terrified that there is no cure for monsterism.  That no one will be able to cure a suicidal self-loathing schizoid masochist, and if I tell Them then I will have to face up the fact that I am a fucking mess  that no one can fix  and I’ve done it all to myself.  And who would want to know that?