11-28-2024

I am sorry to say this all in an inaugural entry, but I think it's also proof of my freedom. I have so many notebooks only a few pages full, because as soon as any time had passed I was so desperate to prove I was better than that person. With age and time and the intermittent singing of my sciata, I am no longer so desperate for reinvention.

It's winter now, so I accept that my day doesn't really start until noon and spurious late night mania comes for my life. Its fangs are my scalloped teeth, its claws my own overgrown nails. I have a hard time wrangling this state. I am so much more productive, I feel that relief! And more active, and more focused.

At the same time, I give into some of the junk food of my soul. Self aggrandizement, spending, eating disorder communities, judgment. I think I have to accept that I must do things wrong to live. This is still difficult.

I still like to spend the big winter holidays like I'm all alone, to remind myself I'm all alone always. Get drunk, talk lightly and tell myself no one really wants to know me. The day is long, slow, melancholy -- and I do things I like to do, unwitnessed, and there is a happy inside me that is bewilderingly light. Joy? Euphoria!

I got mad at someone else for stagnation, comfort. It pains me, because I think I'm that type of person too. But I've been lucky to be employed (and I'm scared I will lose it). Shouldn't I be so kind now, for fear that I will be exactly in his shoes, needing help? But I think it's ok to just feel the way I currently feel, unable to anticipate who I'll be in the future. So I'm mad, and I'm a touch begrundging. Still, when I cried yesterday, it felt good and viscous and I felt relieved. It was like waking up.

I am thankful for feeling. I fear the future, but I am telling myself now: I will make sure I'm ok.

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