Clearly, this is a waste of time


I guess this has been a bad day.  I started off wanting to stay positive but it didn’t take long for that to completely fall apart. Seeing people that used to give a fuck about me posting about how wonderful everything is and seeing other people that used to give a fuck about me “reacting” to those posts when they can’t be bothered to “react” to a single thing I post was pretty effective at making me feel like a complete waste.  It’s like everything just said, “Hey, you!  YOU DON’T COUNT!  Nobody wants you around, nobody misses you, and nobody gives a single fuck about anything you say, do, or share!  But have a Merry Christmas because we sure are and it’s made even BETTER that you’re not around to fuck it up!”

I’m second guessing being back on Facebook, I’m thinking of completely deleting this blog, and at the moment, I have a list of questions I’d like to ask people but I’d get fucking crucified for asking them so why bother?

People don’t actually want to talk to me about anything important.  That would be uncomfortable for them and they’re afraid of how I’ll react.  I get that.  But it bothers me that those same people have told me that I CAN talk to them but they just never seem to have the time or inclination to follow through with it.  So I have to keep it all to myself.  I can write all I want on here, too.  Nobody fucking reads this blog so I might as well be talking to myself.

I’m sick of people saying one thing and doing something else.  I know better.  I should not expect actions to match words anymore, from anyone.  I have no right to.  But there’s still that tiny part of me that actually believes it and no matter how many times I’m let down, that tiny part just won’t fucking die.  “You should TOTALLY trust them!  They said you can count on them and that they’ll be there!”  That tiny part of me is like Charlie Brown falling for Lucy holding that stupid football and, despite her pulling it away every single time, he still goes for it.  Learn, dumbass.  Learn.

If someone IS actually reading this, don’t worry.  This mood will pass and I’ll go back to pretending that everything is okay.  That’s much easier for everyone, right?  How nice for you that you get to walk away and not deal with me all the time.  I don’t have that fucking luxury.  Go ahead and tell me what a horrible person I am and HOW DARE I assume you don’t care?!  If you care, fucking show me.  Stop telling me.  Words are nothing.  Words say one thing and actions say something else and all of the actions I’ve seen tell me that I don’t count.  I don’t count despite the many times you might have told me that I do.

I think that, four or five months ago, instead of writing this I would have been cutting or being somehow physically self-destructive.  I might not seem to have made much progress in “fixing” myself but I think that I have.  Nobody sees it because nobody is around TO SEE IT.  Sometimes I see it, sometimes I don’t.  But as of this moment, I have two completely full bottles of wine, one mostly full bottle of wine, and a brand new bottle of chocolate liqueur that I got as a gift as part of a gift exchange at work and I’M NOT TOUCHING THEM.  I don’t want to self-medicate with alcohol.  I know exactly where my Xacto knife is.  I’M NOT USING IT TO CARVE INSULTS INTO MY SKIN.  So before anyone thinks to say that I’m obviously not trying hard enough to get better or that I’m obviously a lost cause or something like that, consider that I currently have the means to do worse and I AM CHOOSING NOT TO.

Instead I’m just typing angrily knowing that people aren’t going to fucking read this.  That’s okay.  I can read it.  I’m all I have.  I have to learn to be okay with that.  I’m doing what I can with what I have.


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