(no subject)
Oct. 25th, 2006 03:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elizabethI am not behaving rationally. I'm not even sure I am capable of behaving rationally any more.
I am not taking responsibility for my own behaviour, I am not controlling my own behaviour, I am not -- I'm not, fundamentally, acting like myself or like an adult, and that is, as cliched as the phrase is, not acceptable.
My effort hasn't been working, hasn't been enough, and it isn't going to be enough.
Anhedonia, yes -- this entry isn't hard to write, I'm not having to keep erasing sentences and phrases and I'm not sitting here wishing I weren't writing it (I mean, I am, but in no more intense a way than I wish to be smart enough not to spill boiling water all over my desk, which I just did -- it doesn't matter what I want at this point because I'm the one who fucked up and now I have to take the consequences). Although, technically, that's not anhedonia, it's part and parcel of it, for me.
You know drug addicts maintain their usage for weeks, months, sometimes years, before someone notices and wonders? I begin to understand how. People believe me when I say I'm doing something, and I know I'm very likely lying, even without meaning to. Without wanting to. I'm maintaining, not getting better, if that.
Which is not acceptable.
I am not going to let fear run my life, not like this. I am not going to be this girl. I can't say I want to be comfortable in my own skin again, because I am; it's my mind that I don't fit in anymmore. The body is fine -- I look in the mirror and I recognize myself no more and no less than I ever did. It's everything else that is not okay, and that's what's important for now.
Not locking comments because I don't think I should. I don't feel like comments will hurt unbearably, and I want to know I can respond to other people, still. I'm also not filtering this because keeping it to myself at this point is counterproductive and dangerous.
I don't know what I'm going to tell the people I've been lying to. And that's the worst part -- my imagination is dry. I want to lie, and yet I have nothing to say; and what I have done is indefensible.
I am not taking responsibility for my own behaviour, I am not controlling my own behaviour, I am not -- I'm not, fundamentally, acting like myself or like an adult, and that is, as cliched as the phrase is, not acceptable.
My effort hasn't been working, hasn't been enough, and it isn't going to be enough.
Anhedonia, yes -- this entry isn't hard to write, I'm not having to keep erasing sentences and phrases and I'm not sitting here wishing I weren't writing it (I mean, I am, but in no more intense a way than I wish to be smart enough not to spill boiling water all over my desk, which I just did -- it doesn't matter what I want at this point because I'm the one who fucked up and now I have to take the consequences). Although, technically, that's not anhedonia, it's part and parcel of it, for me.
You know drug addicts maintain their usage for weeks, months, sometimes years, before someone notices and wonders? I begin to understand how. People believe me when I say I'm doing something, and I know I'm very likely lying, even without meaning to. Without wanting to. I'm maintaining, not getting better, if that.
Which is not acceptable.
I am not going to let fear run my life, not like this. I am not going to be this girl. I can't say I want to be comfortable in my own skin again, because I am; it's my mind that I don't fit in anymmore. The body is fine -- I look in the mirror and I recognize myself no more and no less than I ever did. It's everything else that is not okay, and that's what's important for now.
Not locking comments because I don't think I should. I don't feel like comments will hurt unbearably, and I want to know I can respond to other people, still. I'm also not filtering this because keeping it to myself at this point is counterproductive and dangerous.
I don't know what I'm going to tell the people I've been lying to. And that's the worst part -- my imagination is dry. I want to lie, and yet I have nothing to say; and what I have done is indefensible.
Reposted from LJ, 20 March 2009
