I don't know how many posts I can start and delete. Tonight alone I'm up to four. It's like I have something I need to dump out, but every attempt just comes back around to poor-pitiful-me, and that's the last place I need to keep going.
The problem is that I keep letting myself get stuck in the evil mud of depression and self pity. I feel useless like that last square of toilet paper that you can't get off the roll without it ripping to shreds, and I know better.
Am I really just stuck in bad place, or do I just keep not doing the things to pull myself out? In the deep dark of feeling bad it's hard to ask that question, but answering it would really help.
In the deep dark it feels good to wallow in the misery, but when I force myself to try and write I realize that it's too often self imposed. Writing forces me to think and examine what I think I think. I don't have to feel this way, but it's so much easier. It really is just a matter of time and place, and I need to figure out what it takes to get out of here. The sad truth is that the self medication of the drink is the biggest help right now, and I'm already close enough to being a drunk without the added aid from the feelings.
Some amount of it is still guilt at having hidden and buried my own gayness for so long that I involved Momma in this to such an extent that I not only allowed her to believe things that just weren't true but went out of my way to make her believe. That was a shitty thing to do, and it's hard to accept that I'm as much a victim of this idiocy I nursed as she is.
The real problem in all of this is that I keep not doing the things it would take to help myself. I'm so used to inaction, I'm so used to being passive, I'm so used to just sitting back and letting life pass by. It's hard to break that habit.
I'm completely accepting of the fact that none of what I've just written makes a whole lot of sense. I'm fine for the moment with things not making sense. It's just how things have to be right now. And having said all that I know that it's really up to me. It's work, and I hate the very idea of having to do that work. But more than that I hate where I keep finding myself when I don't do that work, so it's time to shit or get off the pot.
post title taken from the Rise Against song Rumors of My Demise Have Been Greatly Exaggerated.