Don't Read On. Or Off.

I'm taking a break from advertising my dirty laundry on my journal, after the elections, that is. Look back here in a few days, I should have them posted. And, if you haven't voted, do so now, by clicking on this oversized link!

Tonight was an interesting night. I hung out with some friends, including the token "friend of a friend." She and I knew each other from classes before, but we hadn't seen each other in a while, so it was nice. We also got to hang out alone together, for, like, the first time ever. We jumped in her car and I began venting almost immediately! (Seriously, quicker than you can read this---I was spilling my guts.)

She laughed at me as I went on and on and on. Enter: Snowball Effect. As I apologized for being such a basketcase, she said, "Its okay, I am too." 'Twas like music to my ears.

For so long, I have felt alone in the fact that I am a complete nut. It was good to have someone know what I was talking about, what I was feeling and it was so good to hear, "I know what you mean."

I told her the next time she feels like swingin' from the trees, to give me a call.

Those few minutes unleashed an inner beast in me. I am usually composed in that I need to "save face" so to speak through the facade I have created. Nobody gets me. Nobody knows. She did. Just enough.

And tonight, I am realizing how serious this actually is. It can be fun, no lie, but it also can be scary. The one thing scarier than death is not being afraid of it. And that's how I've always felt.

I don't want to have to hide, or feel guilty or stupid for everything I feel and do. I find myself holding back in my own journal. To my own friends. I feel you (out there in JLand) shouldn't have to read my dirt, nor should my friends have to put up with it. But then there's the question, "Are they really my friends? Why? I wouldn't like me."

Something's wrong.

I feel dirty and used and hated and unlovable and crazy. Crazy. Nobody sees it, that's how far and how well I've buried it. Live in denial. I am.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

It's those moments before rigor mortis sets in that I know, I am awaiting a slow death.

It's scary, I know. I'm sorry. Theres that guilt thing again.

I wish I could scream and just tell everyone what I really think, how I really feel, but I would never. Too afraid of losing, the good and the bad.  

Now I know why it's poison. And why you drink it.

 

Numb.