17.4.12

zip.

I dread human contact. I absolutely hate it. I hate having to think of something to say, hate having to feign interest and sympathy. It's a stressful situation and I don't even know why. I guess it's the culmination of all my antisocial tendencies over the years. Once you get into a habit it gets harder and harder to change as time goes by. I've always been the shy one, the quiet one. The exception is my friends. I'm talkative and at ease with the people I like. I love my friends and I love having friends, but I dread making them. It's like it's too much effort to be worth it. All the awkward getting to know eachothers and stuff, I'd rather just avoid it completely. But it's getting me into trouble. People think I'm arrogant, too good to talk to them. Or that I hate them. Such is the case with my mother. She's been living at her parent's house, and so I rarely see her. That suited me fine, because less interactions the better. So whenever she's over I guess I'm shyer than normal, and my go to response is to say a quick hello, and to go into my room. Not because I hate her, but because I hate confrontation of any kind. I'm so used to just sloughing off interactions, opting for silence instead. It's like it's too much energy, too much I dont even know what, to talk to people, and what harm will not talking do, really? I try to convince myself that I can continue on this way. I'm so set in my ways that it's so hard to change. But now that my mother is mad at me because she thinks I hate her, I'm faced with a tough decision. Break out of my shell and talk to her, ask her about her day even though I don't care (I'm terrible) even though it's way out of my comfort zone and I really don't want to. Or I can keep doing what I do, becoming a socially inept recluse who doesn't talk to anyone unless it's completely necessary. Ugh, This sucks.

3.4.12

rant, wooo!

I wish you had a quieter way of dealing with your bad days. Instead of using everyone you see as a scapegoat so you can escape your load by heaving it upon the undeserving. I'd like to think I'm undeserving of your malice, at least. But you could very well be right. I could indeed be the daughter who doesn't make any effort to contribute to housely chores, the one who hates you, tries to make you miserable, ignores your hardships and who wants to run away to avoid helping you. Maybe you're right about everything. But that isn't the way I see it.

The way I see myself is far from simple and far from resolute. It changes day to day, depending on my mood, the mood of others, and the weather. On the good days I see myself as an intelligent attractive young girl who knows what makes her happy in life. A girl with adventure in her veins and distant shores in her heart. A girl with passion and artistic vision and a loving heart. Someone kind and gentle and introverted, but there's nothing wrong with that.

On the bad days I see myself through the eyes of someone wicked. Someone who picks out her flaws and fears that those around her think less of her for possessing them. Someone who doesn't believe she has talent and shouldn't take pride in anything creative because it's not perfect. Someone who doesn't feel like she's trying hard enough, because her efforts are wasted by nitpickers who pick out the negatives.

The way I feel depends highly on the opinions and moods of those close to me. And on days like this, when you come storming in here, full of your angers and your baggage, and proceed to cut down our efforts and use what we say against us, it's hard to think of myself in a good light. instead I am plagued by your foul mood and feel next to worthless because you're so good at making me feel guilty. You're so good at deflecting blame, and rearranging faults until you're the almighty untouchable queen and I am the good-for-nothing pawn who only exists to do your bidding.
Your anger does more damage than you think. While you yell at us and put us down, blowing holes into our hull
without a second thought, we are left sinking into seas of sadness. I am particularly fragile, with no thick skin to deflect your blows. each shot sinks deep and stays in my flesh, and I am left to carry around these wounds with me, the bullets poisoning my would-be positive outlook. You have turned me into the timid, unconfident, unsure girl that I am today.
I shouldn't blame all my faults on you of course. But I feel that you have had a big hand in making it so, and you have definetly not helped the situation. I feel that you are no longer a mother figure and instead a master. A boss, someone to take orders from and expect no tenderness back. It's sad really.
So sad that I need a vacation, yet you make me feel guilty for that too. Saying that "I know you have to run away to be happy, but it sure would be nice if you'd be around to help me."
Thanks mother, appreciate you being so understanding of my tough semester and my desire to have fun with friends away from your soul sucking vortex of shame and blame. You don't even live here anymore, yet you still expect me to answer to your every beck and call.

You're the one with no job and who's living with your parents. I don't need your guilt trips