so here it is, four am. I promised Patrick I'd sleep about three and a half hours ago, actually, closer to four now, it's almost closer to four thirty. So I feel horribly bad that I can't even keep a promise.
I'm tired, but I don't want to sleep. I can't quite turn off my mind. Not sure why, you'd think that after staying up until eight in the morning being obsessed with a Civ game and then turning around and getting back up just after one...one would be exhausted. But I'm not. I'm tired, yes, but I'm not sure if I'm tired enough to sleep or too tired to sleep. Either way, it means I'm here.
I think it's mainly because my mind refuses to shut off. I can distract it (in those three and a half hours I read The Forever War cover to cover) but I can't quite get it to shut off. I'm not sure if I'm manicky, or depressed, or both (mixed states kill -- quite literally) or if this is just normal angst and thus nothing to worry about.
This evening was a bit of an emotional roller coaster ride, which doesn't help. Again, I'm not sure if it's my own fucked up head, but I feel strangely like a broken jigsaw puzzle piece. That even if I do happen to find a place where I fit, I'm going to forever be an outsider. I know I've had this feeling with regards to #c and a.c, and I know part of it is that I just don't interact, but it's not exactly for lack of trying. And it whacked me hard this evening when I tried to return to my usual IRC hangout, on #spork, after a month's hiatus tonight.
Somewhere along the way, I picked up the idea that people don't want to hear about my problems. Of course, I've always been a better listener than I have a talker, and I'm deathly afraid that I'm going to screw up somehow and that people aren't going to want to be my friends anymore. God knows I've already fucked up a few relationships that way.
But somewhere along the way, I learned you don't talk about the bad moods. You don't talk about depression, people don't want to hear it. And the melancholy is so much of my life, so much of what makes me ME, that I have this funny feeling that I'm closing people off from actually getting to meet me, because I'm scared to death they're going to hate me for what makes me ME. it's confusing.
So, I don't know. In general, I've felt kinda on the fringes of life. I don't have very many RL friends around here, and fewer chances to escape the parents now that school is out for the summer. Communicating with anybody on IRC these days feels a lot like trying to reach through a sheet of plastic, even trying to talk to my beloved Patrick (which is why the phone calls are such a lifesaver). But it's not enough. it's like i'm drowning, and in response to your deperate attempts to keep your head above water, you're being tossed straw. it makes such a pretty pattern on the water's surface, but it doesn't do a whole hell of a lot of good at keeping you afloat.
I feel stalled, stuck, jammed in a pattern that I'm not exactly sure is healthy (in fact, I'm pretty sure it isn't), but I'm clueless as to how to get out of it. I can't write to save my life, which hurts, because as long as I can remember, I've self-identified as a writer. So not even having the motivation to babble to a journal for five or ten minutes hurts deeply. And I know this reads so disjoint, but this is more stream-of-consciousness rant than anything else.
So yeah, joii. Nobody may be paying attention to you, but at least you still have the ability to be poetic. Which is something I'd very nearly kill for right about now. Just to be able to call on my old word friends without having them turn on me. It's not too much to ask, is it?
Sometimes, it looks to me like God's having a lot of fun at my expense.
while mona lisas and mad hatters
somes are bankers, somes are lawyers
turn around and say good morning to the night
for unless they see the sky
but they can't and that is why
they know not if it's dark outside or light