Steve - Forsook

It doesn't get any better. Sorry, mythical reader, blog posts don't get any happier today.

Why do I write? It isn't because I love the stinging twinge I get from the lack of responses, reminding me I'm alone.

It isn't that people don't care, as much as it feels like they don't sometimes, it's just that there's not really much you can say to me, and it's draining to try. And so in a situation with no pressure, why bother? There's no real reason why I'm feeling and behaving like that, it's just... there.

I write to express it I suppose, as cliché as that is. If I didn't write it'd just build up and I'd end up in an even worse state. I can't talk to people about it, that's becoming clearer and clearer. For all the listening I've done, you might think I'd get some good karma that way, but I guess not. So I talk to an ambiguity. Dear reader, I both love and hate you for your silence.

Of course, today fate has given me a reason to be melancholic. I didn't see it coming, but there's not really much I can do about it. A friend decided she didn't want to speak to or hear from me, indefinitely. I wasn't there for her enough, or rather I was not-there for her too much. The irony isn't lost on me.

I could probably go get drugs if I wanted. Drugs for bipolar disorder, especially since I gather psychology has altogether given up on treating it with therapy. Slice off the lows and the highs of my emotional experience, daze myself up... I don't plan to, but the worse it gets the fewer reasons I can think of not to.

Sigh. Another day.