Two more.

So, I had two more of those little episodes last night, and I’m really starting to lose my patience with them. I’m stressed, I get it. Quit fucking with me and let me deal with the bloody stress, kapeesh?  They’re basically just making everything worse. It sucks because I stop breathing for just a little bit, but it freaks me out to no end when I can’t breathe, and of course, if it keeps happening someone’s going to make me go back to the stupid hospital, or to the clinic.  I don’t really want to, because doctors only do one of two things.
1) Give me stupid medication that fucks me up even worse.
2) Do absolutely nothing, tell me I’m fine, and basically waste my time.

So, I admitted to both myself, and my boyfriend the reason why I hate myself so much. You know, my lovely manipulative nature that I mentioned in a previous post? It pretty much eats at me, knowing that’s what I’m doing to people, and being fully aware of it as I’m doing it. But at the same time I’ll start thinking people won’t care about me anymore if I’m “better” or “normal”.

That’s a lovely cycle. Depression -> manipulation -> guilt -> punishing myself -> depression -> repeat until I’m able to break the cycle.

See, the worst part of it all, is that I’m very aware of everything, but I can’t seem to make myself get past it. Maybe I just don’t want to get past it. I’m not entirely sure.

Bleh, it’s early. I’ll probably write something else later.

Muse

I’m in search of a muse.

It seems that for the past couple years, the only thing that kept me writing were the unhappy feelings in my life. Depression was always bittersweet. It provided me with the ability to write the smooth spoken phrases, but at the same time excluded me from the entire world. Odd, really. As if being the most depressed out of those in my monkey sphere, gives me an advantage — puts me on a pedestal above everyone else. Sure, they’re happy, but what is happiness worth these days? Isn’t life just a giant game to prove who’s the got the most problems and can earn the most pity? Collect the most comfort?

I tell myself I don’t want to participate in the game, but every time I try to take myself out of it I fail. I’m too used to winning. I’m too used to being good at something, and I’m not entirely ready to give that up just yet. Perhaps that makes me a horrible, selfish individual, but it’s comforting to know that I share this trait with most of humanity anyway, so it loses its insulting nature rather quickly. Depression keeps you under my thumb, because when you feel like it’s your fault, or you want to make me feel better, you’re very easily manipulated.

I hate myself for that. I want to change that. But I don’t want to lose my advantage. I don’t want to step down from my pedestal — even if it’s incredibly lonely up this high. I don’t want to search for a new muse.