25 XI 2001 - 20:43 - tristitia7/ira7

The subtitle of this entry will be "The Teenager Proves Himself To Be Just As Self-Absorbed As The Other Teenagers Who Are Usually On The Receiving End Of His Very Very Vague Insults."

Hindemith, and maybe some Chopin, now.

I should be doing homework, but this is one of those nights where everything just hurts, you know? Well, maybe you don't. I caught myself thinking earlier that perhaps I needed someone to tell me I was a worthless, stinking piece of shit. I stopped myself to think, "No, you don't really want or need that. What you really need is someone to tell you that what you do is worth shit." Apologies for gratuitous swearing and terrible logic, but it's what I was thinking. Then I got scared and tried to go to sleep and thought that maybe when I woke up it would be better.

Well, I didn't get to sleep, so I went down to practice. The world seems to be colored entirely in the greys of late. It's not even really B. - what it is, I think, is the budding realization that perhaps there is something between me and Al that is still unexpressed - but just that it's there is bad enough for me.

Can we say that this is like having a rug pulled out from under my feet? Because it sort of is. And it would appear that I am having one of those "I don't care about anything" nights, which would be bad because I have a bunch of homework I haven't even looked at. I hate math.

But logarithms and the "natural base e" just don't seem important to me right now. And I am never going to be able to work those out in my head, so why bother? What use am I going to have for them? This is one field where "knowledge for the sake of knowledge alone" apparently does not apply, at least not from this side of the fence.

And part of me wants so desperately to put my friends back together, to take back the hurt and pour it out in some other, safer place --> probable translation: into my own spirit. And a greater part of me realizes that that will kill me, but I don't think it's right to be wrapped up in my own pain which, if you think about it, really is minor compared to theirs. And another part of me realizes the folly of thinking this way, and once it speaks up, is promptly squashed.

But what I want is for this to be over, for my folly, for their hurt, to be over, that we all might return to what we were - it's not going to happen and this is likely for the better... yes, I've heard the "this will change you and you'll be a better person for it" line. I'm not going to call it bullshit, but it's cold comfort right now.

And you know, I'm complete in myself, I don't need or want anyone, except, no, I do. And that funny way I have of making myself guilty for things I want? In full force, right there. And it's something I bloody well *know* I shouldn't be touching, not at this age, and I have started entirely too many statements with "And," but you see, it all piles up like so much firewood, like so many stones.

//press the little button above your spirit: it reads "dismiss"//

And last night, going to the Symphony, listening to good music being played - well, fine, if a bit mealy and without any real spine - and sitting next to T. and being quizzed about Al, and going out to dinner beforehand and cutting the cr�pe for her: you see, that's the root of it, that I want to feel that I matter to someone, that I want to tend to someone, and yet that I also wanted to be tended to, and is that really so evil, so uncommon? No, it's not, I just have to wait for it. Which is fine by me. Really.

And if you believed that, I've got a bridge to sell you. Or my heart on a platter. Whichever. Go ahead! Take either one! I won't be bitter at all!

And I can't deal with the pieces of someone else's life, not when I have to think about the interesting state mine is in.

It's not real suffering. Which means that I'm free to beat myself up over this for as long as I want until I finally burn the guilt out.

Oh, it's in my voice, my carriage, my entire goddamned *body* - my tilt, my everything, my eyes. If I still feel like this tomorrow, it will be so damned obvious to anyone who cares to look and to comment. And the great thing is, I can already count the number of people who will pay attention, because I know they have their own little hells to go through, their own problems to deal with, can't be bothered with mine.

Shouldn't expect them to, either. What can they do about it? What can I do for the people I care about? I can't take them from where they are or fix the things that are bothering them. All I can do is listen. And sometimes, I do. (And most of the time, T. will listen to me.) So. Is that what this is all about, then? Is this diary some goddamned forum, a place where I force people to listen, to give myself the illusion that someone will listen? Is it that I'm angry that I feel like no one listens besides T.? (And why can't that one person be enough for me?)

No, don't answer that. Because that isn't what my diary is, but it's not that, and I don't know what the hell is behind all of this anger and guilt, and I'll be damned if I know why T. can't do it all - oh wait, I do, she's human.

Damn this teenager thing. I'm not made of the right stuff to deal with it.

Some nights, I don't want to see what's in front of me. I think this is one of those nights. And so I take my glasses off because it's easier that way, because that way I have only to deal with myself - no small task to be sure, but one that seems easier when I have only a forest of blobs to distract me. And so I brood, and dwell on what might make this better, what changes might help me to get through this better, and I come up with nothing or I resolve to do things that I never do, and so I feel useless and stupid and a host of other adjectives, because - let's face it, it's easy to be self-deprecating, but it's not so easy to do anything - either in a general sense or about slowly lessening that self-disgust. And I brood on what's caused it - except, no, because it's so easy to pin this on "oh, I'm disturbed because I realized there's UST between me and Al" or "my god, what might have been" or even "wow, you really are never going to have what you had last night with anyone, you know that?" But those are just things that I use to wound myself, because I know they shouldn't hurt me as much, cause such great clamor in my skull as they do. But I also know where my wounds are, and I know what salt will make them sing...

And it seems simple, just letting myself off the hook for once, telling myself that I'm not to blame for everything, that I don't have to fix everything, that I am not responsible for the world. But then other voices come to the fore, telling me that it's self-centered to think the last could ever be possible (which it is) and that somehow I must yet be made to cry as if I had. And it feels so damned right when that twisting comes inside, when something wrenches in my gut and I know I want to cry but can't produce the tears. And it feels so damn right when the guilt comes crashing in overhead.

And after a while, I don't need even the salt so much to make myself feel this way any more. And when something does come that I can rub my own nose in, I do it from habit, and it stings so much worse than I'm used to. And I get self-indulgent (which is why, probably, this entry has gone on as long as it has).

And you know what? It doesn't matter any more, because this-all that is me doesn't really matter, and I. am. boring. you. and this pain isn't real, and everything in my goddamned life doesn't feel real these days.

Just a little more salt, honest...

amicitia, ae f. friendship

apologia, ae f. apology [written treatise]

brevis, breve short [space or time]; shallow [of water]; short-lived [of living things, of conditions]; concise [of style]

brevissimus superlative of brevis, breve

recuperatio, recuperationis f. recovery

sollicitudo, sollicitudinis f. uneasiness, disquiet, anxiety

tristitia, ae f.
or
tristities, tristitiei, f. sadness, gloom, harshness

trivialis, triviale ordinary, trivial