2004-05-04
It begins with enchantment
"I blame it on the fact that you never played enough as a child..."
I suppose that it's too late to begin blaming things now (although according to Freud, that would indeed be the cause of it). Whether or not I played too much as a child has nothing to do with it. My lack of social interactions was due to the fact that other children frightened me, and I never do well in social situations--especially noisy ones.
I doubt that I need to garden, but what I really need is an industrial-sized bottle of prozac.
I keep thinking that after this week it will all be over, and perhaps I'll have my life back again. I don't care anymore, because all I want is my life back.
I become unstable and cry for no reason--oftentimes because that's the only way to release frustration. I don't argue with other people, and neither do I get angry with them. Rarely, I let anyone know what's really going on "behind the curtains" so to speak.
Probably things have been going downhill since September, and the worst part is that I just stand there and do nothing about it. Either I'm too tired, too jaded, too energetic, but at the end, I do nothing. Too depressed, to erratic, too nervous...too many things.
I can only take so much sometimes, but if I survived the entire November-December ordeal, I can survive the rest. Surely, after this week, I might feel relief...or something like it.
I spoke with Evelyn last night, and I told her how everthing is slowly slipping from me. I asked her if she really knew what it was like to watch yourself disintegrate--she didn't. I then tried to explain what it's like to change into someone else--someone you don't want to be.
It is the ultimate sense of desperation as you struggle beneath those consuming waves of frustration, and the passers-by throw petals of pity down your way. You weakly mumble that you don't need their sympathy, and you struggle like some barefoot peasant running down a dirt road of sharp stones. I feel like my feet are cut and encrusted with dried blood, making my journey far too impossible.
"And...who are you?"
I keep asking numerous times over and I never get a response except, incoherent mumblings. Yet that's not who I am, and incoherent mumblings don't define me.
I would give anything to be normal, and I would give anything to switch lives with someone else--someone more ignorant, more happy...
I'm tired of seeing this world through hazy crystal fog.
"You have this look in your eyes that resembles something of deep and bitter anguish..." she said, as she looked at me.
Of course I do! I feel, goddamn you...and oftentimes too much. I feel that moonlight sonata and that July rain. I feel the disillusionment and pain of such a metamorphosis as this one.
Am I a pseudo-intellectual? Yes, indeed I am, and it's about time that I begin to realize that.
Therefore, to those of you who may have thought that I'm gifted in writing, I am so grieved to inform you that you are fools.
I only wish to be left alone in this world of mist and illusion--enchantment is the beginning of disillusionment.