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May. 2nd, 2010 05:00 pmMy daily babblefest at 750words churned up some stuff that ... well, let's just say that the biggest words in the word cloud were can't, don't, and not. (Amusingly, because the subconscious page (overall stats/trends) only updates at the end of the day, it still lists my recent mindset as 'positive'. I suspect that will flip, hard, after today's entry gets processed.) My brain is not the best place to be.
*pokes idly, and also metaphorically, at squishy zombiefodder in head*
I want to change. I just ... don't know how, or am afraid to try if I do. And I think a part of me is clinging to Formless Lump of Depressive Self-Pity because it's the identity I've shaped for myself, and scraping a new identity is scary and hard and stuff. Especially when the identity I'm clinging to (with sigma twined around my neck whispering words into my ear: worthless, useless, idiot, loser; I can sometimes hum loudly enough to block out that voice, but I have to breathe sometimes, and when I do, it's still there: lazy, despicable, pathetic, failure) is so easy to slip back to, because I can climb a hundred feet of metaphorical cliff and still with one mistake fall back down to the bottom.
I sometimes think about writing up the story of my journey with sigma. Not to publish -- I doubt there's be a market for such crap -- but just to write about it. About how it didn't have a name, not at first; about how it started small, almost too small to notice; about what it fed on, and how it grew, and how it changed me.
(And sometimes, I think that doing so would give it too much of a voice. More than it already has, which is still too much.)
*pokes idly, and also metaphorically, at squishy zombiefodder in head*
I want to change. I just ... don't know how, or am afraid to try if I do. And I think a part of me is clinging to Formless Lump of Depressive Self-Pity because it's the identity I've shaped for myself, and scraping a new identity is scary and hard and stuff. Especially when the identity I'm clinging to (with sigma twined around my neck whispering words into my ear: worthless, useless, idiot, loser; I can sometimes hum loudly enough to block out that voice, but I have to breathe sometimes, and when I do, it's still there: lazy, despicable, pathetic, failure) is so easy to slip back to, because I can climb a hundred feet of metaphorical cliff and still with one mistake fall back down to the bottom.
I sometimes think about writing up the story of my journey with sigma. Not to publish -- I doubt there's be a market for such crap -- but just to write about it. About how it didn't have a name, not at first; about how it started small, almost too small to notice; about what it fed on, and how it grew, and how it changed me.
(And sometimes, I think that doing so would give it too much of a voice. More than it already has, which is still too much.)