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21 August 2009 @ 03:43 pm
The Road to Damascus  
This was a big decision for me, to come back here, to this shrine of the self. There was a time, a long period, in fact, when the dazzling superficiality of Facebook and absorbtion into the world of celebrity gossip and fashion blogs was all I needed. I was strong, vibrant, fearless, caring nothing for the inner working of the soul and the tedious ritual of navel-gazing. I had a live-in love, a full time job, an arsenal of beautiful friends, a social card jam-packed with parties, BBQs, beach days, camping trips, dinner parties and other engagements. I was complete.

So much has happened over the past two years of my life and most of it tumultuous. And so it is that I return here, to a ghosttown that no longer boasts a populace, having long since been foresaken by those few voyeurs who once enjoyed a peek into my life as it was back then. I don't know that anyone will read this and I'm not sure that I care. I am not that same Missy anymore, if indeed I ever was at all.

Morgan is gone and painfully so. He literally wants nothing more to do with me and is blissfully ensconsed in a new relationship with a 23 year-old who describes herself as a 'post-modernist, impossibilist Marxist', or something to that effect. The boy who was supposed to take Morgan's place turned out to be just that, a boy and nothing more. Suddenly there was nothing but a terrible void where everything that Morgan gave me used to me. I had to give up my beautiful little condo, our condo, and move back in with parents.

The depression and anxiety have been overwhelming for months now. I can barely work because it's hard for me to get out of bed. I feel uncomfortable in my own skin and hate being around myself and with myself, day in and day out. I was accepted into university this coming term, but ended up having to differ my entry for another year.

I have been in the psych ward here in Victoria and in psychiatric emergency multiple times. I have cut myself with razor blades, burned myself with cigarettes, OD'ed on benzodiazapines and anti-psychotics. I feel often that my skin is crawling, that I would do anything to get away from this fleshy prison that encases me. I am stuck relying on the support of my parents, who fumble and dodder about, trying to make heads or tails of what is wrong with me. No one really knows what the problem is.

A counsellor I've been seeing for months has given up on me, telling me there is nothing more she can do for me. I have been labelled as having various personality disorders and dependent traits. My days are little more than cycles of smoking and sleeping, avoiding the prying eyes and disappointed words of my mother, and playing oh so much guitar in an effort to dispell the gloom.

I am at such a low, and feel so far from who I was when I started this journal. I no longer revel in my own wit and joy at the prospect of sharing myself with others. I feel as though I have nothing to offer, that I have no one and, what's worse, that I want nothing. I no longer care about or feel interested in romance. My self esteem has been decimated and I can't seem to feel a sense of pride, accomplishment, happiness or satisfaction in anything. Like an itch that I cannot scratch, I am always yearning for something more, something beyond myself.
 
 
Current Mood: discontentdiscontent
Current Music: Leonard Cohen - Suzanne
 
 
 
(Deleted comment)
missconstruemissconstrue on August 22nd, 2009 01:33 am (UTC)
Re: I hope this doesn't sound saccherine.

Thanks Erika, I didn't know if anyone actually read LJ anymore. I seem to go through these phases of feeling okay but then getting down on myself again. I really have a hard time when I'm like this because I don't want to be awake and engaging in things. I just want to curl up in a ball and sleep.