It's funny how captivated by nostalgia I am. How all I have left of the person I was is this ghost I see in old photographs and read in these words.
I wonder how completely naive and small-minded I still am, and whether this jaded feeling, this dead end I've found myself facing, will help me to burst fourth in the way I'd always predicted I would.
I have not enjoyed the slow, painful mutation from adolescence into adulthood thus far. I feel like the only people who do are people whose motivations carry them, whose passions are honed, whose promise is surest. I don't presume that these people are happy, but I do imagine that they feel some satisfaction or relief at their success, at the very least, even if other things press down upon them. They at least know that, jaded and numb as they are, that their choices led them to that place.
I don't know how I got here. I don't know where all my warmth went. I feel as though gave it too freely and woke up to find my hitherto bottomless supply of genuine kindness depleted. Even that thought fills me with deep panic, causes me to stir and scramble for the things I used to be, the innocence and positivity I once had, but I don't know where it is.
I don't want to grow in this direction. The problem is that I now live in a vicious cycle, where my self-consciousness perpetuates my desire for solitude and my inability to reach out to people beyond my girlfriend. I have friends who love me dearly still, or rather, who love the person I was and the person I may still be, but the person that they love is not who I am now. I feel grotesque, I feel like a husk.
It is a relief to know that the situation is internal, however. Change is possible, and it is up to me, which is something I relish. I do not like blaming other people for my feelings, even though it is and always will be my connections and interactions with other people that chart my course in the struggle for growth, because that's how I measure my worth. In me is a fuse, somewhere, it's just mustering the courage to ignite it.
Courage. That is what I need, because fear is what cripples me.
Fear of dropping out of college.
Fear of letting my family down.
Fear of letting Liz down.
Fear of giving my heart to others.
The last might be the worst for me. I never, ever thought I would feel that way, I was certain that, if nothing else, I would always be able to take care of others, to show them kindness, to pick them up, and that has fueled me for so long. But maybe that's the problem- maybe I was never really being kind for anyone but myself. I never did anything out of greed or spite in my youth, but I ended up hurting people, destroying people, just the same. I always wondered why it happened, and why I could do nothing to stop it. In the end, though, their assessments of the pain I had caused them were nearer the truth than I could have predicted, though they were never really true in the purest sense of the word, either.
Humans are miraculous in that they can analyze their own emotions, and in some cases, choose to fabricate, alter or distort them for gain or protection. This marvel only stretches so far, though; everyone has a point where primal, overwhelming feeling surpasses rational thought and becomes irrevocable, blinding truth- a sort of intoxicant, a driving force. I've let my lust, my affection, drive other people into the ground, time after time, all the while wondering what the hell I was doing wrong, how love could cause such destruction. In the past two years, I have lost three people I loved, all in very, very different senses, and though it took a long time, the resulting damage has hit with a sweeping force. It altered me. It stripped me of everything I had to give. In my current state, I am petrified of reaching out and showing love to people.
Inadequacy is not easily cured, but I want to try. I want to take this time, now, in quiet, slow, calculated and thorough movements, to grow. Not to rip off all my layers and start at the beginning, but to move gently through each level, taking time to repair the damage and restore balance. I want to be a person who can love again, a person on whom others can rely, and a person whom I, above all other people, am proud of.
And I suppose it begins here.
If you still follow me on here, you should honestly unfollow this journal, because I need somewhere to unload my excess of complicated, childish thoughts and whiny bullshit, and this is the only place quiet enough for me to do it. I won't be editing, cutting it or friends locking it. I don't give a shit. I haven't used LJ socially in years, and I really don't think I ever will again. Just warning you.
I wonder how completely naive and small-minded I still am, and whether this jaded feeling, this dead end I've found myself facing, will help me to burst fourth in the way I'd always predicted I would.
I have not enjoyed the slow, painful mutation from adolescence into adulthood thus far. I feel like the only people who do are people whose motivations carry them, whose passions are honed, whose promise is surest. I don't presume that these people are happy, but I do imagine that they feel some satisfaction or relief at their success, at the very least, even if other things press down upon them. They at least know that, jaded and numb as they are, that their choices led them to that place.
I don't know how I got here. I don't know where all my warmth went. I feel as though gave it too freely and woke up to find my hitherto bottomless supply of genuine kindness depleted. Even that thought fills me with deep panic, causes me to stir and scramble for the things I used to be, the innocence and positivity I once had, but I don't know where it is.
I don't want to grow in this direction. The problem is that I now live in a vicious cycle, where my self-consciousness perpetuates my desire for solitude and my inability to reach out to people beyond my girlfriend. I have friends who love me dearly still, or rather, who love the person I was and the person I may still be, but the person that they love is not who I am now. I feel grotesque, I feel like a husk.
It is a relief to know that the situation is internal, however. Change is possible, and it is up to me, which is something I relish. I do not like blaming other people for my feelings, even though it is and always will be my connections and interactions with other people that chart my course in the struggle for growth, because that's how I measure my worth. In me is a fuse, somewhere, it's just mustering the courage to ignite it.
Courage. That is what I need, because fear is what cripples me.
Fear of dropping out of college.
Fear of letting my family down.
Fear of letting Liz down.
Fear of giving my heart to others.
The last might be the worst for me. I never, ever thought I would feel that way, I was certain that, if nothing else, I would always be able to take care of others, to show them kindness, to pick them up, and that has fueled me for so long. But maybe that's the problem- maybe I was never really being kind for anyone but myself. I never did anything out of greed or spite in my youth, but I ended up hurting people, destroying people, just the same. I always wondered why it happened, and why I could do nothing to stop it. In the end, though, their assessments of the pain I had caused them were nearer the truth than I could have predicted, though they were never really true in the purest sense of the word, either.
Humans are miraculous in that they can analyze their own emotions, and in some cases, choose to fabricate, alter or distort them for gain or protection. This marvel only stretches so far, though; everyone has a point where primal, overwhelming feeling surpasses rational thought and becomes irrevocable, blinding truth- a sort of intoxicant, a driving force. I've let my lust, my affection, drive other people into the ground, time after time, all the while wondering what the hell I was doing wrong, how love could cause such destruction. In the past two years, I have lost three people I loved, all in very, very different senses, and though it took a long time, the resulting damage has hit with a sweeping force. It altered me. It stripped me of everything I had to give. In my current state, I am petrified of reaching out and showing love to people.
Inadequacy is not easily cured, but I want to try. I want to take this time, now, in quiet, slow, calculated and thorough movements, to grow. Not to rip off all my layers and start at the beginning, but to move gently through each level, taking time to repair the damage and restore balance. I want to be a person who can love again, a person on whom others can rely, and a person whom I, above all other people, am proud of.
And I suppose it begins here.
If you still follow me on here, you should honestly unfollow this journal, because I need somewhere to unload my excess of complicated, childish thoughts and whiny bullshit, and this is the only place quiet enough for me to do it. I won't be editing, cutting it or friends locking it. I don't give a shit. I haven't used LJ socially in years, and I really don't think I ever will again. Just warning you.
ecstatic
cheerful
sleepy
calm
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busy
awake