Posted by Shame on April 3, 2006, at 14:05:04
How often I post here in my mind, hurting bad enough to have something to say but not bad enough to say it well... It's a state of in-between just miserable enough to stop my life and make me regret the state of my own being once again.So why not post it and let it be what it is, a half formed though, a portion of my pain, a bit of rage, a piece of my anger? Because I know when I go back and read what I have written, it will be meaningless to me. Reading my old posts lets me know where I have been and use that to judge where I am now. Pawing through my writings from 12 years ago I see confusion much more profound than what I feel now, pain undulled by pills, and an expectation that I might rise from this sickness like a phoenix from it's own ashes. That expectation is gone; this is what I am forever and I know that now. Progress or pessimism? Either way it's reality, because no matter how much medication I cover it with I still am what I am. Broken.
How much of my potential has been wasted on sickness? How many things unaccomplished? Friends unmet? Life unlived. History, unwritten. Half of a life that others encourage me to celebrate. Which half, I ask? The half that is so filled with rage that it scares me, or the half that is just tired an apathetic enough to keep me from unleashing that rage on you, just for suggesting I celebrate my imitation of life?
Somewhere in there is who I used to be. Maybe. Maybe that Me has been obliterated by sickness and is lost forever. And I never go to say goodbye.
Not that any of this matters. Babble. It's all meaningless babble that doesn't do a thing.
poster:Shame
thread:628285
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20060331/msgs/628285.html