Oh wow, I thought I'd be out of here by now.

[cyrano]

Yeah, three days later I continue to have 'Still in Hollywood' stuck in my head. And I'm walking paths I'd hoped to be done with after ten years.
Warning. This entry is not mindless boring getting-to-know-you chit chat. This is that trite self-exploratory stuff that you see in arty French films. Well what do you expect? It's three in the morning, and that's what happens then.
A friend told me tonight that she had no idea why I hated myself. Now, I'm well aware that I hate myself. I used to hate myself like Trip used to hate himself. But I thought I'd gotten better.
Maybe I'm just better at hiding it now.
She went through a few items that left me pretty convinced that no, I'm not even better at hiding it. And I came to the realisation that I didn't have any idea why I hated me either. Yeah, right now my self worth is amazingly tied up with my total lack of income. But the pattern goes further back than that. If my friend Ossian were living here, he would probably be able to tell me why I hate myself. He is whipsmart and very insightful.
All I know for sure is that most of the time I'm pretty sure I can't be as clever and well-read and keen and nice as I seem to have fooled people into thinking I am, and sooner or later somebody's going to find out they've been suckered and everybody will hate me.
So here's where I expose that. Hey, everybody! I'm fucking faking it. I very rarely feel clever, and often worry about my inability to think on my feet and the lack of original thought and preponderance of recycled wit in my communications. I feel like I lack much of the knowledge that people seem to have that tells them 'this is what you do in situation (x)' and so I kind of guess at what would be the right thing. Because saying 'damn. I have no idea what you're supposed to do here' makes me feel like a complete waste. And half the time I guess wrong and I can feel the entire world looking at me and thinking 'What an idiot.' God that was hard to write. Because although the forebrain says 'Now we'll see, when nobody curses and rails against you, how silly that thought was,' the reptile brain is thrashing and says 'Holy Shit! Don't tell them that! What an idiot!'

Okay. I've written and deleted about 500 words now, and none of them said what I wanted to say. Of course, most of that is that I have no idea what I want to say. If I could sleep, I would. But that's not going to happen. I've apparently been frightening the people who know me. And I'm sorry for that. My only excuse is that I thought I was taking care of things, doing what needed doing. Whatever the hell that is.
WHAT AM I DOING? WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?
There is an ugly dark savage part of me that wants me to destroy myself. That knows I must destroy myself. Because I've done something to deserve it. And I'm afraid of that part of me because it seems strong and capable and decisive and all those things that I don't feel like I am. And it doesn't talk to me. It just acts.
This entry isn't for anybody but me. If you've read this far, I'm sorry. But you were warned. I have to go throw up now. Oh, by the way: that bit where I said I was just faking it? That was a joke. I'm fine, really. Just fine.

Comments

"Fooled people into thinking [you] are"

[ex-lucianus799.livejournal.com]

Hi, hon --

I know how it feels to have a reptile brain whispering of being a Great Big Fake -- and I'm not going to try to explain away those feelings because feelings are what they are. My forebrain rather took amusement in my reptile brain's insinuations, responding, "Well, then either you're a brilliant pretender and your cohorts are rather dull -- or you're smoking dope."

And in my case, there's some of both. I've talked my way into and out of some situations, for a variety of not-always-consciously-self-directed motivations. And to use your words, I'm not "as clever and well-read and keen and nice" as I perceive people to regard me. I know there's a survival mode in my psyche that takes over and ruthlessly offers plausible sentiments that I wholeheartedly want to believe, whether or not I truly do. (I'm beating it down as I speak so I can be blunt instead of soothing because, right now, I want you to know that you're not alone.) But I know I'm not a complete fake because I am sensitive to human suffering, especially the well-being of those exemplary individuals like yourself who I have grown to know and admire.

Gentlemen know their own, my friend. I myself "very rarely feel clever, and often worry about my inability to think on my feet and the lack of original thought and preponderance of recycled wit in my communications." I mentioned as much in my first journal entry when I noted that I was terrible at LARPs for my dull wits. I can be charming, as myself, but that is entirely separate from being clever, quick-witted, or original.

And just like you, I fall back on social conventions and very occasional wild-ass guessing in those situations I am unclueful in. But perhaps unlike you, I see this as a positive thing: I value courtesy in unexpected circumstances, and a willingness to venture a courteous intent despite the ignorance of the polite forms shows a courage and earnestness that I envy.

My genes are not your genes. I've always had a stubbornly and embarassingly accepting opinion of myself and I've never quite faced the prospect of being indicted, exonerated, or otherwise diagnosed for off-nominal brain chemistry (though my sister is so reclusive as to be suspected of suffering from depression), so I will not insult your life experience by saying that I know *exactly* what you're going through.

I will say that you have friends that, fooled or not, care about your happiness and well-being.

Take care,
-Stuart