Diane Trout (alienghic) wrote,
Diane Trout

  • Mood:

Tonight I went and watched "But I'm a Cheerleader" with the caltech student pride association. And as usual for me with things like that I left feeling depressed, alienated, wondering if I should just off myself.

It's not fair that I carry around these seeds of alienation, so that whenever I run into situations where there's a reminder of that most hideous of things "love" I crumble in upon myself, finding all the most misanthropic parts of myself.

I hate life. Or more specificly I hate myself. I hate the fact that I want to have a relationship with some nice girl that I can relate to. Yet I find even talking to someone the most terrifying experiance possible.

I've had to cut myself off from so many, I've lost so many friends to moving, it's been so hard to trust people with all of my secrets. The few times that I tried to find acceptance through others I've failed miserably.

I know intellectually that external acceptance doesn't work.

But when you feel unlovable, that you really are only fit for being worm food, it's really hard to find something to feel good about.

My brain is so used to depression, that I invariable focus on the darkness. Despair is my constant companion. Joy is one of the hardest things for me to experience.


Even the anti-depressants suck.

Zoloft unfortunatly didn't completely kill my desire for the little bits of personal sexual experience that I can deal with. It only made it even more difficult to deal with.

I wish it'd killed my desire, the world would be better that way.

Here I am crying into a journal, that in theory other people can read. I was trying to ignore that detail, and yet strangly exhibitionistly I'm still tempted to post this.

Look at the freak. Homo-alienus.

I wish the pain would stop, but unfortunatly since it's a part of me, it won't. At this point even the slightest reminder of people being able to experience positive relationships depresses me.

And of course my obsession with darkness makes it all the harder for me to reach outside my shell. Which further alienates me, further strengthens the walls, further traps me in the horror of my own mind.

It fucking hurts...can't it just go away, this guest of all these decades?

Of course not that would be too easy.

I suspect one of the worst things is that I only know how to get attention via telling the stories of my prisions. I've spent so long being depressed, that I don't know how to share myself and interests in a positive way.

Why can't some place as fuzzy as "whole foods market" actually make cranberry juice without using apple juice as a sweetner... beeechh.

I almost managed to get myself committed once. My therapist thought I was too close to the edge. I don't think I'm as close as i was then, though I suppose that If enough badness showed up for me to fixate on I could return.

I don't know how to do anything besides be alone. Yet my isolation is draining me of any desire to live.

I guess as a kid i was affectionate and needed attention, but then I figured out my various forms of queerness and needed to protect myself from disapproval from my parents. And we kept moving so I kept loosing the friends I tried to build to protect myself. And eventually we stopped moving, but by that time I was already scarred, and new that I was different from those around me. The form of queerness that I was afflicted with. We've got the highest suicide ranking's, I think it was close to 50% had attempted suicide at some point in their life. One doctor who treats us, had the question "How many times have you tried to kill yourself?", not have you, but how many times.

Why is it so hard?

Why is being so different; so frightening?

Why is it so hard to trust? To let someone close to me?

Because I've generalized from all of the rejections, all of the distance, all of the loss.

The two times in recent memory that I fell for someone it ended painfully for me. I pined for them for a couple of years before finally moving on. The saddest part is the actual "dating" part only lasted 3 months--both times.

And since the recovery was so painful I am even more frightened of ever letting myself close to someone.

If I could burn the part of me that wants human companionship out...then maybe the despair would stop.

I should give up whining, though I do have a twisted bit of curiosity as to wether or not anyone will care enough to read this crap.

I should go to bed. Things sometimes look better the next day.

Hmm... Maybe the pain in my intestines really is appendicitis instead of the gas that it most likely is. Then with no effort on my part I could be dead by the morning.

Maybe I don't really want to die. I'm not really sure if I care that much. Sometimes I wonder if I really do reach that much despair, or if it's just some sick method of trying to manipulate people into paying attention to me.

My torturer is always with me,
always ramming hot coals into my soul.

The darkness of my dungeons
always burdens my perception,

These things are always with me,
because I carry them with me
as if they were my greatest treasure.

whine piss moan ... that's enough exhibitionist whining for the night.

I hope someone else had a better evening than I.

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