I lied. I lied so hard. I didn't say anything because that was just the absolute summation of most of this blog.

But you know what, meta mostly non poetic post here. I know why I chose apathy and misery for so long. Being happy -or excited, I'm excitable, I don't know if this can ever turn into happy- is fucking torture. It hurts so much deeper than apathy. I want to rip my lungs out for lack of caring to scream out all the pent up bullshit I've been running away from these last few years.

I know I'm getting better because my emotional capacity is returning, but/because holy shit it hurts so much. I think this is what the Grinch must have felt like. I stay up endlessly so many nights just looking for some answer on my fucking computer while thinking about aimlessly driving and looking for yet something else. I will never stop searching for some way to connect all the bitter bits of me so I can stop feeling so lonely and wistful and stuck in the past where I AM happy. I am only ever happy in retrospect.

I have let go of so many wonderful people and moments throughout my great shut-off. People are essentially shitty and will always leave you, but damn it, they can be so cool while they are there, and I used to know how to take advantage of that in order to survive and actually form some kind of joy.

THAT. It's that acceptance of everything being horrible and sad from INSIDE of my happiness. That's Becca. She knows how to deal and keep smiling and mean it. She is the pity AND the party and it's so beautiful and I really admire her from where I'm standing because only after all of the emotionally and mentally unstable stretches I've gone through do I realize how hard that actually was for her.

I want to drown you all in rivers, surprise, I always feel like crying. It's the only relief for the wordless anger and overwhelming confusion I will always walk through life with. I used to truly believe I was partially of a different world where people lived more delicately and that I never felt quite real in order to protect myself from this one. I miss knowing myself, I realize that now, and I'm coming back to actually being alone in a good way and not in a lost one.

And I think I now, as I recurrently do, know that much of my deep seated rage is misdirected at those around me. It's me. I'm pissed at myself for this. I have long ago recognized problems of letting go. I used to spend afternoons pouring over polaroids and most of my conversations with others are "Hey, remember that time we..." and it always reminds me of the things I always hated about my family but never knew how to fix because  IT WASN'T MY RESPONSIBILITY, but now wish I had been able to verbalize then, because I think this basic disconnection with my relatives really does cause a whole lot of my abandonment and social confidence issues but whatever that's not even the point.

The point is I have hope. I can't even tell you how much I HATE the concept of hope and even uttering the word is shiver-worthy. But I find myself looking forward and back and feeling like I can pull up that mental habitat I used to live in where it's always the perfect end-of-all-my-childhood-movies Fall temperature where each moment I form ends its own story and I can go to bed peacefully and not look back and where every good smell is a bookstore under a full moon and where I can retreat to the corner of my room with trance music and a wiccan book and feel like I do mean something and be satisfied in my small pine tree town and stay in wake-ups and bedtimes forever to get through the monotony of what's really happening. I am a fairy princess, I am Party Cat, and though I am really just an enormous fuck-up, maybe I can be somethings like that again. Let me live.