What a way to start a birthday…

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It’s not that I am always depressed, it is that I am always aware of whether or not I am happy. By constantly stopping to check, ‘Am I happy?’ for me, the opposite occurs. I very rarely lose myself in my ‘living’ or pass time without counting it or lose myself in a moment. I am overly aware of my surroundings, my feelings, the way my hair looks, my body temperature, the pain in my knees, the amount of make-up I have on, how do I smell, am I hungry, is my belly sticking out, is there something in my teeth?

I thought it was OCD, the constant systems check, and I find myself organizing things by color, shape or size quite often, and being completely engrossed in it and unable to live the rest of my life until the task is complete. A little nutty, but there are worse things I could be doing. But that’s just a small part of it. There’s a bigger piece to the puzzle.

I am overly sensitive to and worried about what people think, while masterfully making it seem like I couldn’t care any less about it. I just reread the above two paragraphs and decided to delete them, since they weren’t all that important enough to be a full blog post. And maybe someone won’t care about them, or worse, no one will even read them. So why bother to delete it then? So I didn’t. See?

I don’t know if I am alone in my feelings, I’m sure I am not that unique or important enough to stand out any more than anyone else, or have something so special about me it couldn’t possibly be duplicated. We are all the same, I imagine. At the end of the day. So it makes it hard for me. Hard to love, hard to hate, hard to see people for what they are because I truly strive to understand the minute by minute decision making process, as if we always start at zero and nothing in our past or our nature influences how we behave. Yeh right. People are creatures of habit, street cars on a track, we don’t change much, nor do we want to. And yet…. I want to believe the we can.

I am an author. I write books. Well, I write scenes about the same people over and over and I hope to make all of that into a book. I did make one book. It’s good, you should read it. I put everything I am into it, everything I am. It is my life, it is my sound board, it is my bleeding heart, it is all my hopes and every last fear I have. It is me, divided into several main characters set in a fantasy world in another time and possibly another dimension entirely which was unknown to me until one of my characters said it. I can’t say everything I think or feel, no not here, so I say it in my book. I am secretive, deceiving, misleading, manipulative, all to mask who I think I am, while not really knowing the true me at all. I have habits, things I like, music that soothes me, but it is all very vain and showy and my outward personality is boisterous yet fun and inviting. I like people. I hope they like me. I  hope they know who the fuck I am, cause I don’t.

I often feel clogged. Like my brain is trying to solve some human mystery of the ages, and that I am just wasting time while the world hangs in the balance. I watch TV and regret it, but the next day I watch more TV. I don’t really know what I think. I don’t really know what I believe. I am an enigma and a contradiction all at once. I am no one, and I am everything.

I didn’t set out to write any of this. Tomorrow is my birthday and I am tired of living a lie. But I have created so many lies that taking them down would mean starting over with nothing. Big lies. Costly lies. Lies that will change the entire world as I know it. It gets heavier each day, harder each day, but then I realize, I may not be lying at all. I may have actually built something to be proud of, to be involved in. Maybe. But maybe I don’t give myself enough credit. I certainly don’t imagine myself as I am and I wish for the day I could decide. Who to be? What to do? Where to go? None of those answers come.

My father sent me $100 for my birthday. His card arrived by regular mail, with his DIN number printed after his name. Like a VIN number on a car, you get a DIN number when you’re a convict in a maximum security prison. He sent me a check from the ‘inmate fund.’ Totally weird. For a man who left us with nothing when we needed it most this $100 feels like a bandaid on a shotgun blast to the head. Thank you. I will appreciate it anyway, and make sure to waste it on something stupid. Maybe I can tell the daddy-less little girl cowering inside of me not be so crushed anymore, daddy sent a hundred bucks. That and a bag of chips and you could turn a lifetime of being exposed to the world without any fatherly protection or guidance into a 45 minute liberating session with a shrink.

929 words in and I am beginning to feel a tiny bit better. Or not. I know this will not see the light of day anyway. Even on my birthday, none of this will be relevant or important. I know, whine whine whine, wo is me. Yeh well, I feel shitty. I feel alone, I feel desperate and I feel lost. It is my lie that keeps me in this dark place. Or is it?

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