Introitus

I don't know why I'm blogging. Maybe I'm lonely. Maybe one day something will happen to me and they'll say I never made an effort to reach out to humanity, but then, the few people I've allowed to read this journal will inform them that no, I kept a blog, and the officials will immediately unroll their eyes and see me in a whole new light. I don't care who reads this. Very few people know me anyway. It's almost funny (and I say almost, because my laughter would be kind of forced and you'd know it) that by reading things I have to say here, people I'll never see will know me better than people I converse with in the day to day existence I occassionally call my life (if grudgingly so).

I'm kind of down today. My dog (a Bernese Mountain dog named Buddah) just died of bone cancer at age 6...He went to sleep under the apple tree and my mother has hired a backhoe to dig a hole big enough for his massive body in the rocky land (too hard to dig by hand) where he died. I despise myself for thinking that this is almost picturesque. Kind of like, it's better than a hospital bed. He went without warning, no one crowded him in his final days, he died by himself, left alone to do his thing like he always wanted to do. I think I have terribly romantic notions about death. Images of falling apple blossoms were coming to mind while my mother was telling me what happened, through tears, on the phone today...I hate to hear her cry. I hate to hear anyone cry. I don't think it's any sort of weakness in people, but when it comes to myself, I'm more harsh, I think. I just never know what to say. I think, truthfully though, the problem is that people are sometimes comfortable enough with their emotions to allow me to see them at an unpleasant time..I can never allow for this in myself. A lot of people must think I lack compassion. I don't, not really. I just don't think I've ever allowed for anyone to return the favor..

I think I’ve become far too inward lately, and for someone like myself, who is primarily introspective, more silent self-examination, criticism and neurosis isn’t necessarily a good thing.

I think I am too often surrounded by negativity…my family is generally miserable, far too shrill or far too quiet, nitpicking, analytic. My friends from high school who are still in my home town keep killing themselves or hurting themselves and going home is far too horrible for me to deal with--I don’t think I’ll do it again. I am not strong enough to spend my vacation visiting psych wards or eating disorder clinics. I do not need the threat of restraining orders being broken and the potential for personal violence being inflicted upon me. I guess I kind of just got to thinking--it occurs to me that it seems each and every one of us (those of us who are aware that a problem exists, those who admit to being sad, although not without a sense of shame, as the case often tends to be) is thoroughly aware of the infinitude of possibilities existent on this planet and yet that nothing would come of this endlessness but just that—more leeway; more endlessness. With this armor; this bearing of sublime futility, we carry on in our day-to-day lives. Reasonably, what else could we ever hoped to accomplish?

This is what is getting me down--but it doesn’t really seem like anything else is even possible, you know? There is no alternative. I decided a week ago, exactly, after amiably calling off my joke of a relationship, to unintentionally (at least on a conscious level) correct the numbing void in my heart with a wide spectrum of righteously defended yet highly disruptive distractions. I’ve decided to try at least to appreciate little things that I generally bypass or sometimes roll my eyes at--It might not make me feel better, but I’ll feel a bit more whole knowing that my observation of a moment where I otherwise would have overlooked it, makes the moment more complete. That I was in the moment, causes more potential for personal definition: This girl was here when the old man’s dog gave him a look that said, “I can run and break my leash whenever I wish, but I won’t because you’re frail now, and I love you.” All this as opposed to: “This is a girl. An old man walked by with a dog.” It is strange how an awakening can be both beautiful and horrible at the same time. Sort of funny, but the knee-slapping, side-splitting existential humor that we are all privileged enough as human beings to have limitless access to is not always easy to handle, at least for me.

I often do not like to speak. I never really have. I wonder if my silence is offensive? Maybe people think I'm just really shy or out of the loop, or drunk and stupid. It just feels like I’ve wasted lots of things I might have said to so many people. And the thought of all the sentences I might have said makes me tired. It’s like there’s a swarm of wasted words--like insects--perched on my shoulderblades, dragging them down to the desk where I‘m sitting. I wanted to know why I've got to be this way. Other people seem so ..so..ok. Or maybe they're just better at seeming that way. I smoke too many cigarettes sometimes. I’m probably too thin. I care very very little for what people tell me though. More silent listening. I very rarely pay heed. If I do, no one gets any credit--There doesn’t seem like there’d be much of a point in giving someone credit in fixing me a bit--because I am not a possession. I doubt I’d be very satisfying, if I were. Probably depress the hell out of the other toys in the chest. Make them cut themselves or something….(this is where I laugh).

Anyway, big fucking day at the DQ tomorrow.