associations are so fucking stupid
what do you mean i cant go to fucking sweden. what do you mean i cant play repo in the human museum. what so you mean. what do you fucking mean.
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associations are so fucking stupid
what do you mean i cant go to fucking sweden. what do you mean i cant play repo in the human museum. what so you mean. what do you fucking mean.

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associations are so fucking stupid
sometimes it feels like i am eternally building up a repetoire of things i love. just to have an endless list of things to want
i want a different life, i dont say to people.
because then, then, then. i know. the answer is.
well. go change it then.
i know. i know. i know.
i read asam memoirs and so often just find myself. angry. and frustrated. for reasons i can never square away.

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its like this- you lunge and bite, and your teeth close in on empty air
there is no value to your suffering, on its own.
so then. i look at all this wasted effort, scraped ash on my palms and. i am angry. because what else do i get?
the way my brain works, that associative memory, the way one thing lonks to another and ties them in gasoline soaked thread was. not a surprise. i knew it before. i knew it the way i admire a view and calculate the fall.
i knew it. i had been preparing for it, in some awful and varied ways. stockpiling up books that i read and chewed through and didnt tell her about. video games i sank time into and would mention but not expound on, unless asked. (i was never asked). In the way I had gotten used to silence at night, in all ways.
The way my own voice and touch felt better than aching for something that hadnt been present for. Months.
i knew, i knew, i knew. i always know. i feel the lift and i calculate the fall. it shouldnt surprise me.
it still does. the burn in the throat, the way it feels like a slap and then heat blooming. a twist and a tear in the navel. i skim over the good bits when i scroll through my doc because reading it feels like acid burbling up my throat.
i thought i was ready. but i watch my sister navigate dark halls in repo with an accented voice on the line and it all feels like a lonely self loathing, like a burn, like a hand on the stove, like i knew months ago and kept averting my gaze, hoping and hoping and hoping and-
it all hurts, if i let myself be dramatic. it all hurts. the good and the bad. and that always feels like a nasty trick.
its incredibly well intentioned but people telling me i dont need to feel obligated to take other peoples opinions into account really fucking pisses me off actually. yes i know not doing that doesnt make me the scum of the earth. sometimes im doing it because its such a fucking pain in the ass to not do that.
dont treat me like im a sad and lost child without your help. im fucking aware, thank you. im not stupid.
its incredibly well intentioned but people telling me i dont need to feel obligated to take other peoples opinions into account really fucking pisses me off actually. yes i know not doing that doesnt make me the scum of the earth. sometimes im doing it because its such a fucking pain in the ass to not do that.

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i probably shouldnt sleep with someone till i can handle casual topics bandied about without feeling deep rage and frustration
however.
kindness reads as condescension and i am, so, so, so fucking tired of being condescended right now
i probably shouldnt sleep with someone till i can handle casual topics bandied about without feeling deep rage and frustration
however.
i probably shouldnt sleep with someone till i can handle casual topics bandied about without feeling deep rage and frustration
feeling normal amounts of rage about existing. thats okay. dont even worry about it.
the thing about having been so angry for so long and then having lots of. nothing. and weight and (depression) is that feeling annoyed is good and even lovely and feeling frustrated feels.
bad. feels like a regression. feels like- not like me stuck, exactly, but that all of my responses to it are.
it feels like. rage and rage and rage and i am unable to do anything other than feel it.
feeling normal amounts of rage about existing. thats okay. dont even worry about it.

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i suppose it says a lot, then, that a day out and i feel. relief.
(im sad and sad and will be sad. but it was happening. it was going to happen. it already did.)
There will be plenty to mourn but. i am. breathing deep.
there are things to mourn. we'll see it then, maybe.
In some ways it's nice to think about depression like a light switch. Like an on and off, a clear binary. You feel awful until one day you don't.
In some ways it works like that. In the same way that you pull yourself out of a pit and there is a moment where your head breaches the ground.
But the truth is always more this- better as a crawl. Better as a march. Better as inches and inches and inches.
Better as. one good moment. one moment that feels less bad. Better as- not quite, but. Well.
Better as. I could do worse, but I won't.
It doesnt feel good. But. Take what you can get, I suppose.