Taking time to reflect on stuff...
Jul. 10th, 2002 06:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mousmeThis isn't an update so much as a stream-of-consciousness kind of reflection on the past few days for my own benefit. Feel free to skip this, it's not really interesting, but I'm feeling too lazy to put this private or whatever. It's not even racy enough to do that. ;)
Had a long, fun-packed weekend. It also made me realise any number of things about my life and myself in general.
1- I'm woefully out of shape. Granted, I knew that before, but running about non stop for five hours really demonstrated to me that I live a truly sedentary lifestyle and basically do nothing to help myself be healthy and active.
So, here's me resolving to get into better shape. I'm going to investigate places to work out that aren't too far away from my apartment (ie, downtown and closer) and that aren't too expensive.
Mens sana in corpore sano as they say, and that's the plan. I figure the mental health won't suffer if the physical health improves, right?
I needed that break from the city. It occurred to me that I hadn't left Montreal since August of last year, and that was for a week in PEI. I remember that that trip also did me a world of good, and probably is the reason I didn't suffer as much from the depression until I got back to McGill and things started turning sour again.
I had forgotten how wonderful and restful the country is, even with Mike in the background and surrounded by eight people only two of whom I know well enough to be comfortable with (relatively speaking).
Every time I dove in the lake it felt as though I were sluicing years of dirt off my soul. Of course it didn't last when I got back to Montreal, but it felt good while it lasted. I figure a month in the country would probably have a more lasting effect.
Also, and I suppose this is the first time I'll be "coming out" with this publicly, I was reminded very strongly, as I always am when I'm in the country, of my own closeness with God and His creation. I know I've never come off as being a highly religious person, especially as I don't practise, but I've been preoccupied with the subject of my own faith for quite a while now. My ongoing struggle with depression and (several) failed suicide attempts only served to reinforce this feeling that I'm being untrue to my faith, and I intend to do something about it.
It might just be my luck that you can't spit in Verdun without hitting a church, so I may wander by St. Mary's one of these Sundays and renew my ties with the Catholic Church. I've felt rather as though I've strayed from the path, and with the right shepherd I figure I may well come back into the fold. (Man, that was a mangled metaphor)
Along the lines of more soul-searching:
I had my first "real" cognitive therapy appointment yesterday, and damn was it intense. Epiphany, I guess.
For the first time I said aloud what had always been my silent inner conviction: that the real me is a small, pathetic, ineffective and rather uninteresting thing. I spend most of my life pretending to be someone I'm not, because the real me is so damned awful that no one would ever even consider being her friend, or loving her or accepting her.
I'm not really a real person, you see. Just a figment of my own imagination. When I'm alone, on the street or in a public place, no one notices me. They walk right through me. I've noticed this on many occasions, so I figure it can't be my imagination. If I'm not talking as loud as I can and making signs so people see me, no one even hears what I'm saying. It's not that they're not listening -they just don't hear me because I'm not really there. I haven't really said anything.
My words are always empty, hollow, nothing. It's only when I try really hard to imbue them with something that they gain some tangible quality.
It's why I'm always so terrified in social situations, so afraid of new people. I've spent all my life pretending to be a real person, and every new person I meet could potentially reveal me as a complete fraud, and then no one would want to stay with me and I'd be all alone. Every additional person in a social situation is one more person I have to act for, one more potential person who might see through my act and reveal the Nothing that I really am.
In The Neverending Story, The Nothing is a force that destroys worlds when people cease believing in them. It's described as a spot in reality where it seems as though you've gone blind. I suppose I'm something like that. The only reason I reflect light is because I make an effort to. Otherwise I'd be completely invisible, a blind spot in people's vision.
It always makes me laugh when people say I'm such a great person and that I'm silly to talk like that. They have no idea that they're not talking to a real person. They're just talking to the painted paper mask I've put up pretending to be a person. If they'd just put out their hands they could tear the fragile façade apart, they just never do.
Anyway, it wasn't a very happy session, and I felt it all day. Luckily work was busy so I didn't have time to brood on it much, but when I got home I was in tears. I hugged my cats, which helped and prevented me from carving something I'd have to explain at work the next day into my arm or my leg, and I avoided swallowing the rest of my pills and getting it over with. I figure that's a step forward.
I'm not sure that I liked admitting aloud that I'm not a real person. It felt pretty damned horrible, and now that the truth is out I'm pretty sure people will learn to see through my thin costume and will slowly but surely cut me out of their lives.
Not that I don't deserve it, of course, but it would still hurt more than I could bear. Not to mention that if they did stick around I could never be entirely sure if they weren't doing it out of pity. Isn't that a great double-bind?
I've tried so long and so hard to be what other people want. I'm just tired now. I want to curl up and go to sleep and never wake up.
Of course, that's just the tired, depressive thoughts talking. The real me. The fake me is still raring to go. Mostly I don't understand her. She's so damned intelligent and sure of herself and witty and accomplished. I'm not sure where I'm supposed to fit into that picture, and I'm pretty sure she hates me. In fact, I know she hates me, because I'm her and she's me.
Fuck.
I'm depressing myself now, and I still have another hour at work. I'd better stop before I burst into tears on the phone with a client. That would be embarassing...
Had a long, fun-packed weekend. It also made me realise any number of things about my life and myself in general.
1- I'm woefully out of shape. Granted, I knew that before, but running about non stop for five hours really demonstrated to me that I live a truly sedentary lifestyle and basically do nothing to help myself be healthy and active.
So, here's me resolving to get into better shape. I'm going to investigate places to work out that aren't too far away from my apartment (ie, downtown and closer) and that aren't too expensive.
Mens sana in corpore sano as they say, and that's the plan. I figure the mental health won't suffer if the physical health improves, right?
I needed that break from the city. It occurred to me that I hadn't left Montreal since August of last year, and that was for a week in PEI. I remember that that trip also did me a world of good, and probably is the reason I didn't suffer as much from the depression until I got back to McGill and things started turning sour again.
I had forgotten how wonderful and restful the country is, even with Mike in the background and surrounded by eight people only two of whom I know well enough to be comfortable with (relatively speaking).
Every time I dove in the lake it felt as though I were sluicing years of dirt off my soul. Of course it didn't last when I got back to Montreal, but it felt good while it lasted. I figure a month in the country would probably have a more lasting effect.
Also, and I suppose this is the first time I'll be "coming out" with this publicly, I was reminded very strongly, as I always am when I'm in the country, of my own closeness with God and His creation. I know I've never come off as being a highly religious person, especially as I don't practise, but I've been preoccupied with the subject of my own faith for quite a while now. My ongoing struggle with depression and (several) failed suicide attempts only served to reinforce this feeling that I'm being untrue to my faith, and I intend to do something about it.
It might just be my luck that you can't spit in Verdun without hitting a church, so I may wander by St. Mary's one of these Sundays and renew my ties with the Catholic Church. I've felt rather as though I've strayed from the path, and with the right shepherd I figure I may well come back into the fold. (Man, that was a mangled metaphor)
Along the lines of more soul-searching:
I had my first "real" cognitive therapy appointment yesterday, and damn was it intense. Epiphany, I guess.
For the first time I said aloud what had always been my silent inner conviction: that the real me is a small, pathetic, ineffective and rather uninteresting thing. I spend most of my life pretending to be someone I'm not, because the real me is so damned awful that no one would ever even consider being her friend, or loving her or accepting her.
I'm not really a real person, you see. Just a figment of my own imagination. When I'm alone, on the street or in a public place, no one notices me. They walk right through me. I've noticed this on many occasions, so I figure it can't be my imagination. If I'm not talking as loud as I can and making signs so people see me, no one even hears what I'm saying. It's not that they're not listening -they just don't hear me because I'm not really there. I haven't really said anything.
My words are always empty, hollow, nothing. It's only when I try really hard to imbue them with something that they gain some tangible quality.
It's why I'm always so terrified in social situations, so afraid of new people. I've spent all my life pretending to be a real person, and every new person I meet could potentially reveal me as a complete fraud, and then no one would want to stay with me and I'd be all alone. Every additional person in a social situation is one more person I have to act for, one more potential person who might see through my act and reveal the Nothing that I really am.
In The Neverending Story, The Nothing is a force that destroys worlds when people cease believing in them. It's described as a spot in reality where it seems as though you've gone blind. I suppose I'm something like that. The only reason I reflect light is because I make an effort to. Otherwise I'd be completely invisible, a blind spot in people's vision.
It always makes me laugh when people say I'm such a great person and that I'm silly to talk like that. They have no idea that they're not talking to a real person. They're just talking to the painted paper mask I've put up pretending to be a person. If they'd just put out their hands they could tear the fragile façade apart, they just never do.
Anyway, it wasn't a very happy session, and I felt it all day. Luckily work was busy so I didn't have time to brood on it much, but when I got home I was in tears. I hugged my cats, which helped and prevented me from carving something I'd have to explain at work the next day into my arm or my leg, and I avoided swallowing the rest of my pills and getting it over with. I figure that's a step forward.
I'm not sure that I liked admitting aloud that I'm not a real person. It felt pretty damned horrible, and now that the truth is out I'm pretty sure people will learn to see through my thin costume and will slowly but surely cut me out of their lives.
Not that I don't deserve it, of course, but it would still hurt more than I could bear. Not to mention that if they did stick around I could never be entirely sure if they weren't doing it out of pity. Isn't that a great double-bind?
I've tried so long and so hard to be what other people want. I'm just tired now. I want to curl up and go to sleep and never wake up.
Of course, that's just the tired, depressive thoughts talking. The real me. The fake me is still raring to go. Mostly I don't understand her. She's so damned intelligent and sure of herself and witty and accomplished. I'm not sure where I'm supposed to fit into that picture, and I'm pretty sure she hates me. In fact, I know she hates me, because I'm her and she's me.
Fuck.
I'm depressing myself now, and I still have another hour at work. I'd better stop before I burst into tears on the phone with a client. That would be embarassing...
