saint-louise's Diaryland Diary

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Overcompensation: now almost an art form!

Iím down.

Down down down down down.

Down dooby doo down down.

Comma comma down dooby doo down down.

And, of course, this is extremely frustrating. I went through bouts of debilitating downness when I was a teenager, which Iím sure was somewhat normal for that particular time period. You know, when hormones and machine-gun brain synapses and lordknowswhutall were roaming about inside of me, moping about where they came from, why they were there, what the purpose of life was, why gawd hated them, why they couldnít get superneat guys to notice them, and how to consume mass quantities of fried foods faster. I was relatively comfortable with this role defined for me by my inner idiot, ironically enough. Although I might not have admitted it openly, it seemed like the right thing to be doing at the time.

Nowadays, the downness does nothing more than piss me right the fuck off.

I donít feel like doing anything (even though I have to). I donít feel like eating much (although I need to). I donít relish social interactions (Ö okay, no surprise there). No prospects or events or concepts excite me Ė not music, books, writing, parties, or travel. IímÖvoid.

I canít find the energy to fix it. And I really donít know how to fix it, even if the energy is artificially created through caffeine, exercise, and mentally berating myself for being such a goddamned pussy about everything. This lack of focus, more than the downness itself, is what incenses me. I am feeling sorry for myself, right?

Did you hear that? Feeling. Sorry. For. Myself.

Nnnngh! Errrg! Feeeeh! And other unintelligible comments signifying frustration that is impossible to put into real words!

I feel as though Iím unappreciated. I perceive that I am expected to do things that I cannot refuse without appearing to be selfish. And, above all, I just want to be left alone.

I realize that feelings and perceptions are somewhat valid points, and couple nicely with rational thought and action. This doesnít keep me from considering them to be Ė for the most part Ė just silly. When there is sufficient evidence to debunk the sources of sorry-for-myself and downness, feelings and perceptions are STUPID.

Hereís the fun part: This only applies to me. Therefore, everyone else is justified in feeling stressed, unhappy, and cranky. I am not.

Nnnngh! Et al!

But, as it has since I was six years old and first put pencil to paper on my own time, writing about it helps. It really helps, in a way that no one else seemed to understand when they saw the boxes and folders and stacks of notebooks that I accumulated over the years, containing short stories, books, personal experiences, and games that I had written.

I will not, however, write about my downness in this format again. There is enough meandering, bullshit whining on the in-ter-net without me adding to the heap. Instead, Iím going to write about a few particularly jagged edges from my life. Things that need to be rolled over, buffed up, and put away. I plan to tackle this in as matter-of-fact a manner as possible Ė and, as I am prone to do, with a fair amount of mocking humor Ė but you will realize that the cleansing process always involves uncovering some unpleasant filth.

Maybe Iíll get lucky and Iíll be able to scoop it all into a lump and make an obscene sculpture out of it.

11:09 a.m. - 2005-05-05

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