Dec. 30th, 2012

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"You're not really doing so well, are you?"

That's what Chelsea asked me just tonight. I wanted to lie to her and tell her that I'm fine. I wanted to say that I'm just moving forward slowly but the gradual progress is enough as long as it's present and that my life doesn't feel like a prison. I wanted to say that, even though life isn't perfect, I count my blessings and that makes it okay.

I wanted to tell her these things but I decided to tell her the truth. I always end up telling her the truth and I feel terrible because it ends up worrying her. I could hear it in her voice over the phone. She had this strained kind of yearning to hug me and to fix my problems. It hurt her to know that she couldn't. It hurt me that she isn't the kind to bitch me out for being sad.

I could be crippled. I could be blinded, in a wheelchair, without hands to do anything. I could be so much worse off than I am. I'm warm, I'm safe, I'm in a place that requires nothing of me with parents who, despite being at odds with one another, are more than happy to give me incredibly expensive things. I know I have no right to be sad and, yet, there I am.

I'm gaining weight because I eat instead of exercise. I'm watching too damn much Netflix because I tell myself I might as well get use out of it while I can before I cancel the thing. This wastes time. I'm practicing less than I ought to and I barely write anymore. I just sit and convert oxygen into carbon dioxide in front of an admittedly impressive monitor and wallow in my own negative feelings.

I can already feel myself getting repetitive on this blog. Life is sad. My circumstances are stifling. I complain, I cry, I gnash my teeth and pace the floor and stalk the four corners of the cage my dumb ass constructed around me. I should have been smarter. I should have known this would happen.

How do I find my way out of this? I'm tired of waiting, I'm tired of growing older. There's got to be a way.

Forgive the pathetic nature of this post. This journal is mostly a venting outlet, you see.

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ghosthound

January 2013

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