--to half

"She cries her life is like some movie, black and white."

I seem to fluctuate rapidly (and violently) between a high level of self-disclosure and a perilously low degree of social 'need.' There are times when I feel intensely private, profoundly apart, and completely content with my position as an emotional lockbox. There have been a rare few times when, moved by an internal need to feel 'understood,' I've gone out and confided completely in an individual. Precious few people have I ever actually spoke to at length -- and with painful, strange sincerity. This sincerity has escaped me just this moment; I am suddenly left with the bitter suggestion that perhaps I should stay here, in this room, all weekend. Unmoved by both my own current longing for deep conversation and the fact that sleep, despite its overwhelming appeal, seems far off, I've a notion to remain here...shaking my head from side to side so that my hair covers my face.

I've thoroughly throttled that disgusting mass of depression that launched itself at me some days ago; this is in no a way a repeat of that situation. I most certainly am not hindered by despair tonight -- I am not re-associating myself with any feelings lower than a certain dull unsettledness. It's creeping through the very pores of my body, but I've settled into a cohabitation, of sorts, with such inexplicable moods. I like them, actually. They're very much a part of me...and really, where would one be left without a little inner enigma? The only time an actual problem arises from this cohabitation is when something -- some bit of bad news or a doubly-high dose of that 'residual depression' -- pushes my ability to cope over a self-possessive edge. It then becomes both frustrating and debilitating when I undertake the task of stating my feelings; they're never explained as they are inside, the situation itself spirals out of control until a crying jag takes the place of discussion, and ultimately I am left feeling more alienated, more misunderstood, and more alone than when first I attempted to speak. I am told, constantly and clearly, that when such a thing happens, I just have to stop it. I simply have to pick myself up ("by the bootstraps," as it were), brush myself off, and dry my own tears.

I cannot begin to explain how exquisitely exasperating this is. I refuse to play the "but I have clinical depression" card, because such a move (in my opinion) is fit only for those who give up at the 'starting line,' who constantly look for the easy way out of troubling, difficult, or foreign situations. I used to look for an easy way out of things -- most certainly, I did. It resulted in the loss of a beautiful and vitalizing experience; thus, alongside my search for 'happiness in the moment,' I took up the duty of banishing all tendencies towards taking the path of least resistance. I am nowhere near the end of this endeavor, of course -- but I believe I've made progress, and that's the only evidence I need to continue on with the struggle. I know that I have the ability to "just stop it;" I am very much aware that I have the option -- but that capability hasn't fully flowered yet. Realize that I still need help...I still need help. Self-possession alone simply will not suffice at this point.

This isn't to say that I have some grand store of self-possession, either; rather, I am of the opinion that I lack somewhat in that department. My domino fiend, on the other hand, is to me an interesting example of an aplomb-bearing individual -- that is to say, he does command a certain amount of self-possession...though whether this comes from philosophies he's adopted or from some internal well I've not ascertained. I haven't asked him...or, rather, it's never come up in conversation. Though not unprosaic at times, conversations with him are of the general relationship stock -- except when I get on a 'disclosure kick;' when I feel exceedingly open, he's wonderfully responsive and, like last weekend, we can go on for hours. Those are the times I love most -- those are the times when I feel content, clarity-sated, and willing to let him inside the shell I've constructed to keep others away.

That shell is there, to be sure -- and for reasons good enough. I have been left behind so many times in my life that I am (as of yet) still unsure as to who now will remain and who will go. While this may seem a little girl's fear of desertion, it has grown significantly in this last decade; it has branched out to encompass different avenues, different threads of thought, and different occurences. There is no one way of explaining away this irrational fear, as most psychologically-related phobias (and I guess I would go so far as to call it that -- a mild phobia, of sorts) are too complex and too interrelated with other mental aspects to be simply "explained away." Oh, well. This little phobia, when joined by other fears and insecurities -- a fear of people's scrunity [yes, I did say I'd gotten over that -- for the most part], a fear of being laid too open to someone, an insecurity about my intrinsic worth, etc, -- conspires to harden that shell lest I become what I've always despised...lest I become a bleeding heart whom everyone knows everything about.

When everyone knows everything, one is liable to get hurt. When even someone knows a little about everything, one is liable to get hurt. I will not be hurt again.

"You were fashionably sensitive but too cool to care."

I really should start limiting these miniature dissertations. They're outlining too much of me for comfort. I think, though, that they're allowing me to sit back and look in on myself after I've finished -- hardly a bad thing.