I think should not have gone quite so detailed as I did about certain things in my last journal. Normally after I write a journal entry, I spend an hour or so looking over it, removing things that shouldn't be there that slip in while writing in the moment. But that flowed out so fast and so hard it put me in a bad emotional state and before I could collect myself, my dad showed up (coming in without knocking, naturally; parents . . .). Hit submit and closed the browser before I had time to think about it. And then I was so busy putting on a happy face for my dad, I didn't have time to think about what I'd written.
Next day, spent all day moving in the last pieces of furniture into my apartment (it was only a couple of things), replacing a broken light fixture, and, incidentally, my mother showed up and was there for six hours - at first putting in shelf-lining (something I easily could have done myself) and then feng-shui-ing my apartment to her liking. I had to feng-shui it a bit to get it back to my liking afteward. Dealing with her was exhausting and I just went to bed.
So, it really wasn't until this morning that it really sunk in what I'd put out there.
For anyone who read it and might be worried, I want to clear something up. I'm not in any danger of suicide, or doing anything else distressingly permanent. If I've managed four years under the intense stress of . . . well, everything, without shooting myself, it's highly unlikely to happen now that I'm away from the most direct and upsetting stressors.
But to answer what is probably the follow-up question: No. No, I am not okay. I'm in a very deep, very painful emotional malaise and could probably qualify as being chronically depressed, given that it's been going on for four years. As is normal for depression, it's not all the time. I have good days. But the bad periods go on for weeks at a time. Crushing, soul-eating weeks where nothing feels like it's worth anything.
And I've avoided confronting the cause of this depression by burying it with rage. I raged at my mother for her psychological manipulation, raged to the point that the simple act of her calling my name illicited ferocious, whispered curses at her very existence. I raged at her hoarding habits that ended up confining me to my bedroom and roughly four square feet of free space to move and work in, with everything else in the house being piles of clutter literally (as in the dictionary definition of literally) from floor to ceiling. I raged at her always taking in my sister's increadibly unruly and poorly behaved kids all the time (because she thought she could be a better mother than my sister could; she is and always has been about controling everything). I raged at her constant recriminations aimed at everyone else, blaming others for what she herself did to all of us. And I raged at my dad for not having the courage to even attempt to put a stop to it, even though we could all see it was ruining her health and sanity - to say nothing of everyone else's.
Rage. Constant rage. Such constant fury is not good. Not emotionally, not physically. Biologists have proven that stress and anger can negatively impact your health and, boy, can I feel it now. My mom's hoarding probably played into it as well - afterall, we haven't been able to properly clean anything because of all the junk; dust everywhere. But I think my decline in health over the last couple of years is probably more linked to my unrelenting anger at my whole situation.
Misplaced anger, in fact. Because the only purpose it served was to keep me from confronting my own self-loathing. I don't have many friends. I'm an introvert by nature, and as a child, I quickly became the target of bullying and abuse in school just because I was weird. I never made many friends as a result, but over time I developed a deep pride in believing that even if I had few friends, I was a good friend to those I did have. It became a huge part of my personal sense of self and how learned to accept the fact of being socially ostracized.
And then suddenly I wasn't a good friend anymore. And because of it, I had no friends. And my ability to trust my family was shattered. I am alone, with no one I can talk to. Because I wasn't the person I thought I was. I wasn't a strong, trustworthy friend, I was a pathetic child desperately pleading for mother's aproval.
Four years of rage allowed me to hide from that. I could shift blame onto someone else, and it was all the easier to do because she was always giving me constant reminders of why I was so angry. So many things I could be angry at. But I'm away from that now. I've only been away a week, but already, just being away from those stresses, being away from the uncleanliness, away from the constant interruption of sleep from screaming babies, away from conversations that start with back-handed accusations 80% of the time . . . just being away from all of that has got me thinking more clearly.
I haven't logged into DA in months. I wanted to focus on getting myself moved out, I thought. But in truth, I hadn't logged in because I have nothing of value to share. I haven't written any stories in years. I've written a few pieces that I guess you could call role-playing aids, or maybe brainstorms, and I've written some weak, fragmented, self-indulgent shit not fit to be shared publiclly. But stories? Actual narratives that have some personal meaning to me? No. Nothing.
Logging in leaves me feeling ashamed. I'm producing nothing of value to anyone, so why should I even bother to update anyone. What do vague suggestions that I might, maybe, be able to get back into things do for anyone other than allow me to persist in deluding myself further? I'm not writing. And I don't know if I will be writing again at any time in the forseeable future.
Because I no longer have any confidence in what I write. Because I have no more sense of self-worth. Because I am alone.
But maybe . . .
I'm not okay. But that little outburst, that harsh, straight-faced acceptance of what I refused to acknowledge . . . For the first time in years, I fell asleep easily, and my sleep was unfitful. I don't feel better, but I feel . . . calm. I'm not hiding from myself now.
I'm not okay.
But maybe I can be in the future.
I'm gonna stay on break from DA still. I may briefly check in now and then, but I'm not going to be posting anything. I may privately reply to any concerned inquiries if I get any. But logging in regularly serves no point. I don't have anything to share, and logging in just reminds me that I don't have anything to share. I may need to start up therapy again, because I don't know if I can pull myself out of this on my own anymore.
I'll update again, if I feel I have something worth updating you all with.
Listening to: Pink Floyd - The Wall
Watching: This just in! TV still sucks!
Playing: Who has time for games anymore?