a bastard

I am so sad all of the time.
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2018-11-16 03:28:21 (UTC)

It’s okay to eat fish because they don’t have any feelings.

Hello. This is my third or so time trying to keep a journal at length. Each time I either forget or become bored. You think it’d be easier just to write in a notebook or a private app, but I like the idea of someone somewhere reading this.

I’m not going to tell you my name, because it doesn’t matter, and you wouldn’t remember, anyway.

I was doing very good for a while, for a few months, and now I’m not. Last night I almost relapsed and broke up my nine month relationship with sobriety, but I didn’t. Not like anyone would know, anyway. Where’s my obligatory pat on the back for not drinking whiskey and vodka every night? I’m waiting.

I had a number of revelations about my life and what I would like to do with it, and for a while was intensely motivated, and now I don’t feel that trademark fervor that made everyone suddenly love me. People looked up to me for a time, or maybe it was just the rose tinted glasses of self confidence; either way I don’t feel as in control and assured as I did only a few weeks ago. It’s disconcerting. I feel as if I’ve somehow fooled everyone, myself included, that I have changed and have become a remarkable and driven person who will do good in the world. I believed it for a time. I hope... that I can make myself believe it again.

I’m lonely. So intensely lonely. I seek out, every day, social contact with someone who hates me, but also is the only person to have ever intimately understood me. Well, one of two people. The only one I can still see. I am also the only one who understands him, and he knows it. But he hates me and I myself harbor some contempt for him, but also immense desire for emotional connection. But I don’t feel like talking about that right now. That’s for another day.

Anyway, I’m intensely lonely and I miss the only person who understood me and also simultaneously did not hate me. Rather, he loved me. I don’t wish to say his name so let’s call him... Count. That’s good.
He will likely never be in my life again (or maybe he will — I don’t know how this whole life thing works, anyway, I am very young, after all).
Anyway, I love him. He loved me, and always had. We didn’t separate poorly; that’s not why I use the past tense. We were separated by other forces despite our best efforts. It cannot be helped.
I love him still. I will never stop looking for him, and if not him, specifically, than some approximation of him in someone else.
I have yet to find a suitable substitute. No one holds a candle to him.

I’m meeting my therapist again after some months of absence, during which I felt no need to speak to him. I want to talk about all of the above, the loneliness, the mild emotional crisis I’ve experienced, and the feeling of being an imposter. I won’t mention Count, though. He will not understand. I don’t think anyone can.

It’s funny. I think, to serve myself best, and make myself feel not so lonely, I need more time alone. I haven’t had much of that lately. Or any at all, actually.

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