Happy
I need to find out why I refuse to fulfill my social needs, why I isolate myself so much lately. It's an odd thing, in all honesty. It's the one parameter of my happiness that I'm not aggressively pursuing right now. But it's a big one. I have these social needs that help craft a backbone of basic happiness, the ability to interact with others in a hospitable way, to give and receive... it is a genuinely core aspect of myself. I'm not even really doing it online these days. I'm putting stuff out there, but I'm not responding to anything.
It feels like a type of depression. It feels like a small darkness, getting bigger. And it feels like low self esteem. Do I not believe anyone will want what I have to offer? I've never really believed that in my life. Am I going to start believing that now, NOW, at this point in my life where I could do anything? Maybe this is a form of self gaslighting, a way to make sure I don't reach my own full potential. Maybe it's that dark part of me reacting to options, reacting to potential, with fear and dampening. I keep making dates with men and not keeping them, getting sick beforehand, convincing myself I don't need or want that kind of interaction, convincing myself they will find me gross. I keep thinking about volunteering, about doing a meetup group, and running up against the same wall.
Fuck you, brain. Why are you continuing the work of someone else? And doing it better than they ever did? Who are you, up in there, talking to me that way? What an ugly, pathetic, amalgam of cruelty you are, trying to ensure a lack of happiness. I wish I could isolate the voices that compose you, wish I could create a net that scooped up those moments that strengthened you. I would throw them away without a qualm. I would tear out and burn every memory that created this part of myself, even though a part of me is horrified at the idea, horrified at the concept of losing a part of what makes me who I am. These particular parts aren't me, though. They are grafted on lesions, the fears and insecurities of so many others.
This is the legacy of an empathetic childhood, surrounded by isolated, insulated, terrified people. This is the legacy of my conflicted parents, my confused siblings, my abused friends. This is the legacy of every person I've tried to heal throughout my life, and this is the legacy of my failure.
I do not have the tools to help broken people. I had the makings of them, but I do not have the training, or the ability, to make real use of them.
I do have the tools to make myself happy. Genuinely happy. And in that happiness, I might be able to help others be happy. But that's not the end goal. That can't be the end goal, because I have no sense of proportion, and would try and make it everything again. I need to make myself happy. Being selfish does not make me happy, so that's not a danger. Just, let me be happy, brain. I don't want to keep separating my sense of self from my sense of darkness in self, but I want to address it. It's ok to be happy. I will be happy.
It feels like a type of depression. It feels like a small darkness, getting bigger. And it feels like low self esteem. Do I not believe anyone will want what I have to offer? I've never really believed that in my life. Am I going to start believing that now, NOW, at this point in my life where I could do anything? Maybe this is a form of self gaslighting, a way to make sure I don't reach my own full potential. Maybe it's that dark part of me reacting to options, reacting to potential, with fear and dampening. I keep making dates with men and not keeping them, getting sick beforehand, convincing myself I don't need or want that kind of interaction, convincing myself they will find me gross. I keep thinking about volunteering, about doing a meetup group, and running up against the same wall.
Fuck you, brain. Why are you continuing the work of someone else? And doing it better than they ever did? Who are you, up in there, talking to me that way? What an ugly, pathetic, amalgam of cruelty you are, trying to ensure a lack of happiness. I wish I could isolate the voices that compose you, wish I could create a net that scooped up those moments that strengthened you. I would throw them away without a qualm. I would tear out and burn every memory that created this part of myself, even though a part of me is horrified at the idea, horrified at the concept of losing a part of what makes me who I am. These particular parts aren't me, though. They are grafted on lesions, the fears and insecurities of so many others.
This is the legacy of an empathetic childhood, surrounded by isolated, insulated, terrified people. This is the legacy of my conflicted parents, my confused siblings, my abused friends. This is the legacy of every person I've tried to heal throughout my life, and this is the legacy of my failure.
I do not have the tools to help broken people. I had the makings of them, but I do not have the training, or the ability, to make real use of them.
I do have the tools to make myself happy. Genuinely happy. And in that happiness, I might be able to help others be happy. But that's not the end goal. That can't be the end goal, because I have no sense of proportion, and would try and make it everything again. I need to make myself happy. Being selfish does not make me happy, so that's not a danger. Just, let me be happy, brain. I don't want to keep separating my sense of self from my sense of darkness in self, but I want to address it. It's ok to be happy. I will be happy.
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