Sunday, July 10, 2005
Ich bin immer im Stress. I enjoy nothing in the present, because I dread the next thing. I marvel that other people, who have as much to do or more than I, manage to accomplish everything, while every day I struggle to finish just one thing I make plans for. Most days this involves little stuff, such as reading a book for at least an hour or so, like I did easily enough when I was in junior high. Now I cannot read a paragraph without falling asleep or becoming distracted by something else.
The Father Situation compounds my inner problems further, especially since he determined I do not fit his new family and am therefore not good enough to be a part of it anymore. He and Terri also decided that I am broken, but not worth the effort of fixing. All I have ever wanted out of him is some stability, emotionally if not economically, but apparently his love has short limits. Anyhow, he cannot/will not provide the means under which I can rehabilitate myself, which adds to that running list of his general faults that I keep.
I genuinely try not to be perpetually negative, for it is not a trait I admire in other people, so I certainly would avoid displaying it myself, but nevertheless people I meet usually don't have to talk to me for more than five minutes before figuring out that I am fubar. During the fall I successfully avoided making more than two friends, but especially since working, an increasing number of people have indicated they find me somewhat likable, and I cannot spurn them all.
I feel it selfish of me to want to have any friends. Depressing people are burdensome piles of poo; everyone else has a thousand plaguing troubles of his own without having to be delicate about mine. Depressing people who are also full of shit are irritating as well.
Then, of course, there is my natural aversion to other people, which exists whether I am depressed or not. People smell.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 1:48 AM]