Hatefulicious.

Yes, I created a word. I'm feeling fairly hateful, but, I would much rather ignore the negative energy that seems to surround the emotion known as hatred. And, thus; the word hatefulicious evolved. I'm an icious. Everything I do is icious. Delicious. Vivacious. Auspicious. Capricious. Even fairly Suspicious, but we'll shove that random tic back to the bottom of Pandora's Box. I am going to go out on a limb and say that the prettifying of the word doesn't actually do anything to the emotion. *sighs*

It isn't a pity party day, I'm not feeling sorry for myself, or at least, I don't think I am. But I've randomly burst into tears a few times in the past three or four days. I'm not depressed, I'm actually "fine" so I don't understand, nor do I wish to stop what I'm doing to focus on the feeling and contemplate why I'm dying inside crying.

I do hate it here. In this box. In this prison sentence of a life. In the heat. Where I really don't want to leave my house after 6 am in June. Because it's suffocating and so life-stealing. Someone drop the lock! (WoW joke. Ugh. Add another sigh, years later I still reference the evils of that game.)

I keep having nightmares that I'm running, and running, and going higher, and higher in a building... through trap doors, and attics, and more attics on top of attics, and hallways. I'm running from someone or a bunch of someones. The more recent dreams involve people I know, strong people, dying while I'm on the run. I always stop at some point and try to have a real life moment, an "escape" moment, but always, always; I have to drop real life and start running to survive. I don't know what it means. What my subconcious is trying to tell me I'm missing in my waking hours, but I would definitely say I spend most of my time running. And hiding. And distracting. And trying not to feel. Because feeling is admitting there is a serious problem, I am not normal, I am alone, and I'm hurting. Stopping to live and feel is hard, and

I don't know how to breach the stoicism

 I've developed; so why try?

This is hard. Being sick is fine, I can handle the sick part. I can handle the pain most days, I just block it. The vision I ignore, I've always had vision problems. The migraines are my normal, I don't remember not having them. It's the fatigue and the depression. It's the loneliness and the awkwardness I feel around people because I am uncomfortable and nervousness makes me talk funny, walk funny, and even act funny. At home my family has to take me as I am, and I'd have friends. I'd have someone that I could just go with once and awhile. I wouldn't be stuck. Imprisoned.

Knowing there is a whole world out there I can't be a part of? Lifeless.

I keep seeing ads for our church. Their tag line is: "Come to Life!"

It's mocking me.

Off to continue this ritual facade that has become such a complete part of me. I would have made a great actress. I'm even starting to fool myself.

Marred.

This has got to be the  l o n g e s t  I have spent on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Give or take a few memories that have haphazardly been erased by time, and we have a winner! *ding ding ding* Really isn't as pleasant as all that, but I'm trying desperately to diguise my trepiditions with bravado. Really. Trying.


The emotions will not be the first to be bottled up and corked, but they certainly hold the most pressure and are as resistant to dormancy as a child's volcano expiriment. (In fact, I have a suspicion that if it weren't for all of these bad memories, and their need to be buried deep within the bowels of my mind, I wouldn't have short-term memory problems.)

Days like this one are the reasons why God allowed for wine and the written word.

If it weren't for a good book and a tranquility in a glass, I would probably be in a wheelchair.

*If only certain other people in my life would realize how precious this time is in my life.*