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A little less than a happy high
One day I will be free of this accursed refresh button and actually have a productive day.

Today is not that day.

Instead, today is the day that I anguish over friends in the process of self-destructing. I feel like I should say something, have an intervention or something. At the same time, I feel like any of these would be hopelessly meddlesome, and worse, would do nothing to help. When someone is invested in self-hatred, knowing or otherwise, there is very little that can be said or done to help them out of it.

Loneliness often feeds on itself, and there are so many different ways to structure your thinking to elaborate on the reasons why you are lonely. All of them pointing away from the fact that on some level you choose to be. Yeah, vast generalization here… stream of conscious is running amok.

I can recognize these things because I’ve seen the Big D and I engaged in some of the most ridiculous behavior in order to ensure that I stayed with that utterly grey place.

I cried the first time I saw Pleasantville.

More and more I’m convinced that it takes a lot of work to maintain depression. Admittedly, a good deal of it takes place on an unconscious level, but you’re always at odds with yourself, always in your own way. You’re punishing yourself, and the big question that none of us ever stop to consider is why.

Is it just that we don’t believe that we deserve to be happy?
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(Deleted comment)
komos From: komos Date: July 29th, 2002 10:19 am (UTC) (Link)
I understand that limbo impulse well, but I think I was commenting on the self-destructive aspects of depression. In my worst states, I've actively driven my friends away from me and otherwise sabotaged my life and place in the world. I don't think it was intentional, but as things fell apart, it did provide an external reason for my internal pain.

I have no idea what the end of Pleasantville meant, but honestly, I don't remember it that well. I was a wreck coming out of that film, and I'm not sure I understood it on a rational level from about the point where the art book was flipped open.
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