2002-09-29 - 4:03 p.m.
This strange season of pain will come to pass…
Will pass… will pass… will pass… will it? Oh course it will. I just wish it would speed up a bit. Toward what, you ask? I’m not sure. I think I’ve been idealizing the past and my past self, thinking that the dislocation and alienation and depression are a product of something (or someone) foreign that has interrupted what was a reasonably normal and functional existence. But a little bit of honesty wipes that grin from my face pretty quickly. Sure, I’ve been kicked around a bit. I’ve been hurt by those I’ve made myself vulnerable to, and consequently have the corresponding feelings of rejection and whatnot that are attached to such experiences, but it’s not as if I have been entirely unacquainted with loneliness, anxiety, or depression. Perhaps it just feels like I’ve gone backwards and that the way I feel is more appropriate to, say, a nineteen year old, not to a twenty-four year old. And then I have to wonder if all of life is like this: this feeling as if something is not right, as if I am not right. I pray that it’s not. Sometimes I feel about depression the same way I feel about insomnia, like the only appropriate response is to scream. It’s an oppressive, claustrophobic, stifling feeling that blankets everything, a “splinter in your mind.” And what if it’s chemical? I hate the idea of a falsely induced state of happiness, but I don’t dislike the idea of prosthetic limbs, if they are necessary. And perhaps it has to do with living at home, being in a place that is still stuck in the aftermath of it’s own destruction, trying to salvage and repair this or that mangled piece of my past, instead of beginning life for myself.
