billmaxwell: Popsicles (Default)
I am not sure what's making me reluctant to post at DW. Often when I try to get some of my thoughts and emotions down, they just flee like leaves on the wind. Or, they often consist of things I like to hide from.

That's probably a more frequent occurrence, in all honesty.

Right now I have few enough people following me here that I probably don't have to worry about someone commenting and saying something to the effect of:

1) Hey, you're a complete idiot.
2) Your problems are all your own fault, so STFU.
3) Quit complaining about that shit and DO something, you ineffectual asshole.
4) All that navelgazing isn't going to do dick.

Mainly I think I worry about this because I think those things about myself. I have a lot of problems, and I feel like they are my own fault. I do lots of talking myself out of the various things I could do about them; e.g. go to a therapist, leave my husband, find a new job, etc etc etc.

I do this because I pretty much feel like it's hopeless. There is something wrong inside me, something that makes me make the wrong decisions, chose the wrong people, take the darker fork in the road. I'm a fuck-up. And a coward. And I seem determined to take apart any chance I have at happiness and well-being, piece by piece.

There is nothing worthwhile here. Carry on.

Wow, this was supposed to be a post in which I worked my way around to being positive. Clearly that wasn't meant to be.
billmaxwell: Popsicles (Default)
It occurs to me that I don't know how to do what is referred to on LJ as "cut text" here, so this may be a longish post that should have been behind some sort of cut, if that is possible here. Or not. Hell if I know.

I am at a low point in my emotional life. It may be in my real life as well, as I am in an unfulfilling job, struggling financially, and am unhappy in my marriage. I am doing quite a bit of uncontrolled emotional eating, and as a result, I'm putting on weight...something which, historically, has a really, really negative effect on my self-image.

And I find myself having a hard time caring. I am not what I look like, right? In fact, focusing on the external me is kind of superficial and shallow, isn't it? I kind of think it is.

And yet I can't stop thinking about how I am heavier than ever before in my life, except right after having a baby (and I don't know how close I am to that, because I'm a little afraid to get on a scale). I feel old, and heavy, and slow, and thick, and coarse.

And I don't care a whole lot. Food feels like a drug. While I'm eating, I feel calmer. I don't have this crazy-eyed, pacing sensation. I can stop thinking about how much I hate my life. It always comes back, unfortunately. This is becoming a bit circular.

I think I am on a slippery slope to something very, very bad.

Writing about myself feels very awkward, and strange. Talking about my feelings feels uncomfortable, and strange.

I want to ask someone for help. I don't know what to say.

Unrelated poetry thing:

Don't give me ultimatums.
I am not ever always, or never.
Except when I am.


billmaxwell: Popsicles (Default)

July 2009

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