I'm back on the anti-psychotic and anti-depressant and I tend to be thinking clearer without added "They're out to get me, and by the way I cannot understand my own thoughts" kinda thoughts. Something went horribly right in my life.
The list of things going "horribly right" in my life is rather large, and for some reason I cannot help but think it'll collapse completely.
Maybe that's because I've screwed up my life so many times I need an extra auditorium full of hands to count it?
Hmmmmm . . . an auditorium full of hands . . . surely there's a horror movie in there somwhere . . .
Anyway, I keep thinking it'll all fall apart, and the reality is that I have the ability to make that fear a reality without breaking a sweat.
I fuck up. It's what I do because it's what I THINK I do. Self-fulfilling prophecy. I think I'm incapable of anything other than failure, and so I don't try to do anything other than fail.
To say it's pissed off some people is to put it mildly. I doubt I know completely which people I managed to piss off, and some of the ones I THINK I MUST HAVE pissed off turn around and wind up sticking by me no matter how many times I drag them down with me. I can't figure it out. Are they pissed, but loyal friends? Did I not piss them off at all, and they're loyal friends?
You see, I don't really care what happens to me. It's NEVER about me. It's all about HOW I'M REGARDED by those I care about.
How shitty is that? You'd think all the therapy would have solved that.
Bullshit. I bullshitted the therapists because I WANTED THEM TO LIKE ME. I got so honest and direct here that I fled several times to avoid maybe, just maybe, showing someone who I really am.
Fuckin' A.
This is the real me: Confused. Scared. A fuck-up. So convinced I'm an idiot undeserving of friends that I'll subconsciously find some way to piss off those who might be willing to call me "friend."
And, yes, I am, indeed, better than I was. I've been working at it. Still, it's two steps forward, three back, and a baby-step forward to catch my balance.
So . . . now what? I don't know. I'll think of something. Maybe I'll take another step forward, maybe it'll be a step off a cliff and I'll wind up fucking up some part of my life again.
Welcome to the diary, voyeurs and voyeurettes. I've laid my deepest, darkest turmoil on the table, and the only problem I find is that admitting I carve feedback and attention sounds an awful lot like I'm demanding attention.
I can't even be decisive enough to be passive-aggressive. I've gotta do it accidentally, then fret over whether or not it'll be interpreted that way.
Fuck it. No more playing around. I gotta journal somewhere, and I already have this account.
Peace out.