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

Still Hanging In There

[tamago.livejournal.com]

If it looks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, why not call it a duck? By the same token, if you look to be courteous and clever, and seem to regurgitate the right words at the right cue, you're doing a hell of a lot better than many folks who have no clue and don't even know who to imitate. And that's just ducky.

But, yes, I know this jocularity doesn't help anything in the slightest. And some things you just have to work out on your own. But, if you need your friends, we are here for you.

In the meantime, might I recommend "The Stormy Search for the Self" by Stanislav and Christina Grof? This book marked a turning point in my depression, and maybe it's complete bunkum, but it is a different approach to depression and other conditions that, to me, falls under the "chicken soup" category: it can't hurt, and it might make you feel better.

Symbolically speaking, the part of you that is saying you must die may have metaphorical truth. If you are to find peace with yourself, that part of you that beats yourself up and whispers how horrible you are must "die". Just don't confuse that bit of you with *all* of you. You are more than your self-hatred. Your body, your spirit, your heart, your essential coyoteness is loved and worthy. And don't think dying has to involve blood or knives or actual death in any literal sense.

The primary focus of the work is how to interpret strong psychological truths and work through them without destroying yourself in the process.

Just read the book, and then throw it at my head for being hopelessly upbeat and useless.

(((hug)))