This blog often contains uncomfortable subject matter and occasional sexual content. If you don't want to read about it, empower yourself to close the page. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- God, really? Yup, we're going for a fourth. We're doing this. Oh, and I'm stoned. So I'm sure it'll make just so much sense. Bet it'll be a real good read. I'm a goddamned narcissist. I write differently when I unlock this journal. I feel weird about that. The entries I wrote when it was locked are more confessional. These are guarded. And not too long after I unlock it, I usually start to feel embarrassed or even ashamed of the things I've written about myself here that anyone could access. Then I lock it again for a while, until I feel desperate to be heard, but can't handle the overwhelming vulnerability of being this open with the people I know. Heh. It's like that time when I decided to smoke salvia while naked. I was all, "Rebirth!" like this meant something deep, instead of meaning I'm fucking crazy. And then it kicked in, and then I felt like someone else was there, and then I didn't want to be naked anymore. I don't like how I'm feeling tonight. Two nights pent up in my room, not talking to anyone. Jesus, only two nights and I'm reverting back to how I get when I'm isolated. Is there really no difference between three months and two nights? I'm talking to myself, rehearsing conversations again. Only this time, people are here, just across the hall, who could potentially overhear. Then it's, "EH, is your room mate talking to herself?" Which brings on the obsessive thoughts. Half the time, I don't know if I've been talking to myself or having a very elaborate one-sided conversation in my head. Or more of a monologue, I guess. Weed makes it so much worse because I do it almost involuntarily, and when I catch myself, I'm not sure what was out and what was in. But if I don't smoke, I spend all night overthinking everything, and BK always comes to mind, and I just cry. I become inconsolable. This is why I need meds. I can't even be left alone with myself without coming unraveled. On the plus side, though. I haven't picked my face all night. I even leaned in toward the mirror absent-mindedly earlier, while I was having one of my "was I just talking" fits, and my eyes started scanning for good spots to pick, and instead I just calmly backed away from the mirror. So, not only did I identify a trigger (the anxiety of not knowing if I was talking out loud), I abstained from the compulsion. That's a pretty good sign. I'm not handling AP's presence well, obviously. I'm pissed at her, but it stems from serious anxiety about approaching her about the stuff she's doing that's bugging me. A lot of people would probably just tell me to calmly ask her to make sure that anything in the dryer is fully dry before taking it out. Hell, a polite person would probably still thank her for taking the time to fold the laundry, even if she did miss the fact that it was still wet. The laundry shouldn't be a big deal. And it's not, it's my complete lack of communication skills that's getting me so uppity tonight. So, there's something to discuss with JuD at our next session. I really hope I don't have to cancel it again. In the meantime, I've been holed up in my room because I don't want to talk to her. And they've been keeping his door shut more, and now I feel unwelcome, literally shut out. I should go out into the living room. I can't stand the little bitch right now, but she's EH's best friend, so she's going to be around a lot. I'd better learn to suck it up and be friendly for political reasons. Oh, and? Like a lovesick highschooler waiting by the phone to be invited to the damn prom, I still find myself holding out hope that BK will reply tonight. It's weird to see that for what it is. To know it's fucked up, and to still do it, and to feel sad, for yourself, which somehow is different than feeling sorry for yourself. Isn't it? I know he's just repeating the same old pattern. And here I am, too. And it's oddly comforting and exciting at the same time. It's like we're still together. I'm his little pet again, scratching at the door for him to come home, waiting at his feet by the table for scraps. Here I am waiting for validation, and he will respond when and only when he's ready, only on his terms, and when he does, what he has to say will not be what I'm seeking. And if I say anything, ask "Why did you wait so long to reply?" I will be the one labeled immature. I'll be demanding, nagging, scolding. He was just busy, that's all. He was having a hard time finding the words. Christ, didn't he say he's been avoiding coping with his feelings, which meant avoiding me? Guess he wasn't kidding. The thing is, I'm used to it now. I know what it is. This aloof detachment is how he stays in control. The ironic thing is, I don't think he's even in control of his own aloofness. I'm not letting him off the hook when I say this, but it's like an involuntary defense mechanism. I've called him on it in the past. He gets defensive, acts like I'm being paranoid and accusing him of deliberately manipulating me, of even being capable of such underhanded tactics. He doesn't do it consciously, that I know of. In control, indeed. Hahaha... I just got a message from him. 9:59 p.m. - 2014-01-02 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||
|
||||||