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I'd like to think that I don't like myself. Oh sure, you all may get that idea reading these weblogs, but the truth is that I have enough dignity and self-worth to avoid doing really stupid things. I don't sleep around. I don't use drugs. I've never mutilated my body in a heinous way, like with a tattoo. And, worst of all, I actually have this desire deep down inside of me to improve myself. How sickening is that?
There are so many reasons that I think to give up, and yet I think of other things to keep going; to keep hope alive. So many things that can make us think that happy endings are possible despite the misery we've experienced. So many things that tell us that love is possible despite having never been loved at all.
I'm convinced that depression is a disease. No matter how badly I feel and act when the depression takes ahold of me, I can't shake it. It comes on me like a desert thunderstorm. I HATE the way I feel when I'm depressed.
And above everything else, turns out I'm goofy-looking, too. With all this that I've put up with for the past 25.5 years, it's no wonder that I can't take a compliment, no matter how true it might be. It's no wonder that I tone down the emotions given to me by other people.
I'm so clueless and vague. I can't plum the depths of how people feel. I have to have it laid out before me; spelled out for me. And therefore, I say things that seem callous and cavalier. I seem like the world's biggest asshole at times.
FUCK!
And after all that; after 91 days; nothing seems clearer at all.
Maybe I'm not looking at things the right way. Maybe I just need to have my glasses cleaned for me.
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