gladdecease: (*this stuff is just /weird/)
gladdecease ([personal profile] gladdecease) wrote2014-08-24 10:20 pm
Entry tags:

thing the thirty-ninth [i can't give up my defenses]

People are... hard. And I have a tendency to abandon things that are hard. Oh, sure, I act like I abandon them from lack of interest, or outright distaste, but honestly? Half the time I convinced myself that I was disinterested rather than deal with the difficulty.

But being isolated like this is hard too. And you can't exactly abandon an absence of something. It takes work, work I think I've forgotten how to put in.

Or did I ever put it in? So many of my friends were friends-by-proxy, and I have no fucking idea how I found those initial friends in the first place. (One I remember for sure: at the beginning of middle school, friendless and jumping from empty lunch table to half-empty lunch table every day, I accidentally wound up at a table with someone who recognized me from homeroom and invited me to stay. She was my best friend for years, though I never felt like I was hers.)

I don't know why I'm lingering on this - maybe because my sister just went back to school? And though she spent about as much time online as I did this summer, she was always in the middle of three and a half conversations at once, texting and Skyping and IMing friends irl and ol alike.

So I know it's possible to be online and not be like this, but I don't know how. And god knows I've never known how to ask for help. (It'll be a fucking miracle if I let this post go out unfiltered.)

I don't know. I don't know. What I'm doing, how to start - or stop - or... fuck, anything. If I let myself dwell on it, I start to panic - but social health doesn't have a deadline like school projects used to. I can put it off, ignore it. Forget about it for a while. Bury myself in someone else's story, where the sadness at least has a purpose and character arcs have direction.

I don't know. And I hate stewing in my own ignorance, but more than that I hate the fluttering embarrassed feeling I get when I ask for help, or so much as glance at a self-help book.

Fuck this fucking "gifted child" complex of mine. Years of people telling me I'm so smart, so naturally talented, sure to go far. That shit did nothing for me except give me delusions of my own abilities and keep me from developing a support system at an age when it might have been less humiliating to ask for one.

(And fuck my fucking sitcom-perfect family, who taught me to react to bad situations with Schadenfreude instead of sympathy, whose banter and antics might be amusing to watch but are painful to live with, whose end of episode moments of kindness utterly fail to balance out the toxic shit thrown around during the first two acts.)