"Can't make myself hurt, no matter how hard I scream..."

Sometimes when I think about my younger years, especially high school and college, I realize in hindsight just how much of a melancholy girl. Sure, I could put on a smile, and I could make people laugh and feel comfortable, and I even got good grades... until I was left to my own devices, anyway. But I wasn't happy then.

The only difference between the me then and the me today are age and self-awareness. I know I'm unhappy... but just knowing that doesn't really help it.

In those dark college days, I wrote Reborn Again. A lot of it was raw and unpolished and made up as I went along. But it had something else... it had genuine feelings that I poured into it, born of the frustration and helplessness and despair I felt in my life. Chapter 0 was likely written in one of the darkest moods I've ever had, and so much of it still feels relevant today. I guess that's why people still read what I've written there, now and then.

Now I pour my feelings into this journal. It's not the same as writing stories, and certainly not fanfic, but it's become the place I confess about a lot of things -- not everything, as the entry below indicates. But it suffices... it helps me get my thoughts together, at least, and it gives me that window I need to express at least some inkling of what I feel inside.

Right now, I'm listening to Portishead. Their music has always inspired and evoked that darker parts of me... the Dark Siren, ever hungry and desirous, for whom my site is named, and Ryshassa, whose apparent light hides a twisted, hateful darkness perhaps even deeper than the Siren's. But neither of them were named when I first listened to these albums... they were not even ideas, then. Just feelings.

I am reminded in particular of rainy evenings working on papers for various classes, listening to Dummy or Portishead's self-named sophomore album. I remember one evening... it was probably 1998, I think... or 1999, I can't quite remember. I'd just recently bought the second album, so it's got to be after that. Anyway... it was the holidays then, and my sister and I were still living together in our campus apartment in Riverside. That was probably the only year we actually decorated... it wasn't much. We had one of those small, artificial trees, and little ornaments and some lights we put around the window. That's all, really. We lived next to these horrible frat boys I felt so miserable to be around... they exemplified everything I didn't like about college life, and I would have been a shut-in as a result if I didn't have my sister to do things with.

Even then, I probably ignored her more than I spent time with her in those days. I was locked in my room, working on websites or Reborn Again, now and then chatting... just... being alone, being creative. We got into arguments about it now and then. She hated that I didn't like to contribute with cooking and cleaning. I tried, but I just didn't want to bother, a lot of times. I got in the habit of buying a lot of food that was easy to prepare. I'd eat soup straight out of the can, frozen food, that sort of thing. Or order pizza or eat out. You can see how I ended up gaining so much weight in college -- and it wasn't even because I was busy with homework. I avoided doing homework until the last minute, most of the time, because I preferred working on webstuff, running the Fangirls ML and so on.

Looking at my behavior then, I realize I wasn't very kind to my sister, and that's something I regret. I mean, we've talked about it since, so there's not any hard feelings that I know of there. But back then... I didn't even know how to express what I had. That I was actually severely depressed, I mean. I didn't want anyone to tell me I was ill then... I got angry about it when it was suggested. I was scared to go to a psychiatrist. I read things like Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar and got horrified I'd be given electroshock and treated with this professional distance that makes me feel more like a test subject than a person. And besides that... who wants to need a shrink? It just means you're crazy and can't fix your own problems like normal people do.

I guess I'm just musing about this because it just strikes me so strongly sometimes that I've been this sick for this long. And even though I know it now, most people I've met -- even those I know fairly well -- can't really understand what it MEANS to be depressed. They'll act as if I can just get over it after a short time, or that it can be rationalized or explained somehow so it'll go away. Sometimes, they'll take it personally, because when I'm deeply depressed I'll get angry a lot, or just hide away a lot. I'll talk very fatalistically with a smile on my face. Someone makes a joke about a fortune cookie saying "You're going to DIE!" and I'll say cheerfully that I'd like to have that one.

Obsession with death. Hopelessness, stretching from my past to my vision of the future. Inability to deal with stress without overreacting or panicking. Bitterness at everyone who doesn't have it so hard -- people who can walk outside without thinking of how ugly they look. People who actually HAVE degrees and jobs and can earn their own keep. People who don't feel compelled every time to judge themselves by what others think or want of them. People who can appreciate what they have. People who can actually be HAPPY.

I've always been like this. I don't really remember a day in my life where I was happy in any lasting way. I was afraid and I was escapist and I did what people told me and I had fun once in a while. But I wish... I still wish to this day that I wasn't born. I wish I could make the decision to end it, like I should have so long ago. Even in this I am constantly indecisive, and I'm ashamed.

I don't really believe I'd be missed if I was gone. I know that sounds selfish of me. But I've read and seen what people do after a person commits suicide. There's grief, there's anger. But people move on. They have to, and they should. I don't want people to mourn me when I'm gone. I want them to see my example and live a good, happy life. I want my friends to have a beautiful future. And I hope, I truly hope that those who have the signs of depression can get help for themselves sooner than I did.

Because I don't know if it can be reversed now. I think I've lived too long in despair. I think that I may just quietly leave this world one day. But at the same time -- I know it's foolish -- I want everyone else I care about to be happy. I'm just sorry that I don't know how to be happy too. It's not as simple as just thinking positive thoughts. I can't DO that and believe them. My instincts are to expect the worst, and to believe the only good things in life come from hard work and perseverance. I'm all right at the perseverance, but hard work? More often than not, I've failed at what I've set out to do. It's just that I keep trying anyway. I keep trying, because my pride wants me to get it right -- and because a part of me enjoys the shame I feel from messing it up again.

I went recently to visit a friend. I was afraid to, because he was with someone I've never met before. She turned out to be a pretty nice and friendly person, even though I couldn't understand her totally. But my reasons for meeting them was not just to say hello and spend time, though I DID do those things and I think at least part of the time, it was enjoyable. I also wanted to see what she was like, what kind of relationship they had -- because I was convinced I'd be envious. I wanted to feel that. I wanted to satisfy myself with the idea that they were that much better off than me.

Shame. Somehow, I've learned over time to extract a great deal of pleasure from shame, and it doesn't even have to be sexual. But the euphoria I can feel from that can lead to sexual things... when I'm alone. Again, though, it's something I've had to struggle long and hard to realize is a problem -- and thereafter, struggle to keep that belief despite the fact so few other people see it as problematic. But, I've talked about this before, too. It's bad for me, because it's an instinct I can't control, and it's inherently destructive. Self-destructive, in fact. But it's almost impossible to trace. If I didn't write about it here, no one would know about it.

And that's what I wanted. I didn't want anyone to think I was sick -- I just wanted to be passably normal, and finish college and find work like everyone else does. I just couldn't do it. I tried for 25 years of my life and I just couldn't do it. To this day I feel sickeningly ashamed of that fact. Most people believe that you can do anything if you put your mind to it, and if you can't that means you're not trying hard enough. Well, where does that leave me, then? It means I'm a failure, and other people have to pay for my failings to keep my sorry carcass alive.

There are times I vascillate on this belief. It's especially when it's other people besides me that are being criticized. I know what it means to try and try and just find yourself absolutely unmotivated and unable to continue. But people put such little weight on psychological issues -- because they're invisible. Every behavioral quirk I express could be explained away another way. "Oh, she's having a bad day." "This or that happened and it put her in a bad mood." No, it's more than that, and I've been this way for most, if not all of my life.

Depression. I wish I could be rid of it. But there are no easy cures for an illness of the mind. And I don't expect people to be patient and understanding of me. Maybe I will lose the friends I have now. Maybe I will kill myself. Maybe I will find a way to live the abuse and enslavement I fantasize about. And maybe... I will have something better than all of this.

Next year will tell...