I am so composed.

Why no tears?
Tired? Distraught? Not comprehending? Indifferent?
Probably a combination of all. Too many blows, can't go any lower, can't take anything seriously. Can't even get angry.
And not worth it.

Aye, there's the rub. That's what caused most of this mess. I don't feel angry, or hurt, or powerful or vengeful or sad or mad. I don't feel sorry for myself. I feel stupid. Comprimising standards for the sake of familiarity.

Angry outbursts point to a weakness. I may feel mistreated, but I don't have the energy, nerves, or desire to lash out. I had less of an emotional investment. So now, when it comes down to it, I don't give a fuck.

This is my favourite -- "you crave it inside to feel like a piece of meat and your self value stripped away". Such heartfelt prose. It's a "slab of meat". Or maybe that's a reference to the Scorpions song in which the term "piece of meat" refers to a male penis. Better yet, call me some sort of vegetable.

But maybe everyone is right. This is where it ends. Favourable turnout for me I suppose. Given the circumstances, it should have been worse. Thank you Jupiter, the giver of gifts and luck.

Really, I am undeserving.

I feel like a brick wall. Everything bounces off of me.

Guilt

"Inhibition doesn't grow on trees, you know -- takes patience, takes concentration, takes a dedicated and self-sacrificing parent and a hard-working attentive little child to create in only a few years' time a really constrained and tight-ass human being."
- Philip Roth

So if I end up like The Monkey it will be my father's fault.


Here's something else I relate to:
"The coincidences of dreams, the symbols, the terrifying laughable situations, the oddly ominous banalities, the accidents and humiliations, the bizarrely appropriate strokes of luck or misfortune that other people experience with their eyes shut, I get with mine open! ... I have a life without latent content. The dream thing happens!"

My reaction to the lowly and simple -- to what is governed by the ego and the id, the selfish and ridiculous -- is ecstasy! I pass judgement, I curse and I rage, but I come. And in the face of butterflies I am frigid. How's that for an indicator of unconscious repressions, eh? I can't get off because I am sincere!


Alright, enough with the psychoanalytic melodrama. Frida Kahlo said "I used to drink to drown my sorrow, but it learned to swim." Everything is therapeutic and every therapy is limited.