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Inside My Fucked Up Head
Mar. 22nd, 2004 11:12 pmI’ll make a pact with myself right now that I will not remove this post. That I will not remove any post, ever.
I am pre-menstrual, that much I know, a time of the month that drags me into introspection. But is it the hormones talking, or is it simply that the unleashed emotion prevents me from pretending that everything is okay, and shoving things back down my throat like bile.
This time of the month, I shatter.
I have no life. That realisation came upon me just now, and the thing is, I tell myself that I am happy with my existence, all the time, but really I am not, Not in these moments when I’m forced to be true to myself. When the truth jumps out and slaps me across the face with its somewhat icy palm.
I was talking to someone this afternoon, and he was telling me about all these things he’d done, and I was just sitting there wondering why I had never done any of them. Why am I not DOING things? Why am I going to work, coming home and connecting to the internet? Why is that the basic pattern of my life?
On some level, I can tell myself that it is because I don’t drive, that it is because I am not yet 18 while my friends are, and why would they want to do the things that I am confined to because they are able to do other things. But are these just excuses? Am I just lying to myself?
I can see the irony here, believe me, that the very thing I am chastising myself for, having not life, or living vicariously through the internet, is exactly what I am doing now, posting here.
But is that not just a mark of how deep into this pattern I am? I don’t know HOW do dig myself from it, don’t know HOW to go out and have a life. What the hell does one do? I’m not at uni, and I’m stuck in this fucking job for the year. Some of the people I work with are cool, but does one go out and do things with the people one works with?
There is a guy at work, actually, but as far as I know he has a girlfriend. It would wreck things if I were to take it any more than what I think is just mutual flirting. It always does.
Does life have any meaning at all? Does MY life have any meaning? It’s just work, and talking to people on the net, and one cup of tea after another. Am I enriching anyone else’s life? How do we measure the meaning in our lives? I certainly feel that I am going nowhere and doing nothing, right at this very moment.
Perhaps in a few days I will feel better, or I will at least be able to tell myself that I just had PMS and was stupid and depressed. But perhaps this entry will remind me that, yes, while it may have been shitty woman hormones, it is probably the truest I will be to myself, except of course when I am so drunk that the typing does not even make sense.
Mum said to me tonight that she thought something was wrong, and I looed at her and said ‘Well, my grandmother did die a few weeks ago. Don’t think you’re the only one it’s affecting’ and she said no, that she had noticed a change in me even before that.
I really don’t know who I am. I have no definition of self. How do I get one? Does one ever get one? I call myself a girl, but I am really nothing like any of the other girls I know. I call myself a writer, but I have not written anything original for 18 months, or however the hell long it has been. Are there any other words I can use to describe myself? I can’t think of any.
And now I have an overwhelming desire to eat chocolate. As if that would do anything but make me even more depressed, when I realised what it was doing to my body.
How do I drag myself from the well of apathy I seem to have fallen into? This is a cry for help. Chuck me a rope, drag me out, and stop me from drowning.
I am pre-menstrual, that much I know, a time of the month that drags me into introspection. But is it the hormones talking, or is it simply that the unleashed emotion prevents me from pretending that everything is okay, and shoving things back down my throat like bile.
This time of the month, I shatter.
I have no life. That realisation came upon me just now, and the thing is, I tell myself that I am happy with my existence, all the time, but really I am not, Not in these moments when I’m forced to be true to myself. When the truth jumps out and slaps me across the face with its somewhat icy palm.
I was talking to someone this afternoon, and he was telling me about all these things he’d done, and I was just sitting there wondering why I had never done any of them. Why am I not DOING things? Why am I going to work, coming home and connecting to the internet? Why is that the basic pattern of my life?
On some level, I can tell myself that it is because I don’t drive, that it is because I am not yet 18 while my friends are, and why would they want to do the things that I am confined to because they are able to do other things. But are these just excuses? Am I just lying to myself?
I can see the irony here, believe me, that the very thing I am chastising myself for, having not life, or living vicariously through the internet, is exactly what I am doing now, posting here.
But is that not just a mark of how deep into this pattern I am? I don’t know HOW do dig myself from it, don’t know HOW to go out and have a life. What the hell does one do? I’m not at uni, and I’m stuck in this fucking job for the year. Some of the people I work with are cool, but does one go out and do things with the people one works with?
There is a guy at work, actually, but as far as I know he has a girlfriend. It would wreck things if I were to take it any more than what I think is just mutual flirting. It always does.
Does life have any meaning at all? Does MY life have any meaning? It’s just work, and talking to people on the net, and one cup of tea after another. Am I enriching anyone else’s life? How do we measure the meaning in our lives? I certainly feel that I am going nowhere and doing nothing, right at this very moment.
Perhaps in a few days I will feel better, or I will at least be able to tell myself that I just had PMS and was stupid and depressed. But perhaps this entry will remind me that, yes, while it may have been shitty woman hormones, it is probably the truest I will be to myself, except of course when I am so drunk that the typing does not even make sense.
Mum said to me tonight that she thought something was wrong, and I looed at her and said ‘Well, my grandmother did die a few weeks ago. Don’t think you’re the only one it’s affecting’ and she said no, that she had noticed a change in me even before that.
I really don’t know who I am. I have no definition of self. How do I get one? Does one ever get one? I call myself a girl, but I am really nothing like any of the other girls I know. I call myself a writer, but I have not written anything original for 18 months, or however the hell long it has been. Are there any other words I can use to describe myself? I can’t think of any.
And now I have an overwhelming desire to eat chocolate. As if that would do anything but make me even more depressed, when I realised what it was doing to my body.
How do I drag myself from the well of apathy I seem to have fallen into? This is a cry for help. Chuck me a rope, drag me out, and stop me from drowning.
