Idiosyncratic happenings. A poor explanation for the wormy details of my poor self.
I'm learning about emotion and how my disease plays on all of its parts. All of my influences, both to and from, both self and environment inflicted, good and bad, serve to alter the climate for all who stray within my vicinity, yours truly included.
Love may be a highway, but sympathy is a minefield strewn with the corpses of those who have fallen prey to the reality of the human condition.
On less cryptic terms: those of us under the duress of physical and psychological deconstruction make lousy bedfellows, lousy conversationalists and lousy friends.
In other words, I'm not good at being the object of sorrow, pity or empathy. Best concern yourselves from afar. My close up blemishes, behavior and moanings tend to grow as a blight, seeming perpetual in nature to those nearby.
Nobody is safe. Not even Amy. As I grow more anguished, she grows more fatigued. As I try to comprehend the course of living salvation, she uses all of herself to guide me. When I hurt, she keeps her tears contained. When I hurt her, she simply hurts.
So, find your proper distance. Feel for me, sure, but don't feel me. The fire is too hot. Even with my dependency, I hurt the ones I love. I don't want to survive if I must tread upon the husks of those who saved me.
This is why I must heal myself.
On a cheerier note, we have our family reunion in Austin this weekend. For most of you who cannot find the words to respond, just know that I care more for you all than I do for myself.
Self is overrated. We are nothing alone. Even so, I hold firm in my belief that I am the answer to my destiny. I must simply listen to others in order to follow the right path. I'm working on that.
I'm learning about emotion and how my disease plays on all of its parts. All of my influences, both to and from, both self and environment inflicted, good and bad, serve to alter the climate for all who stray within my vicinity, yours truly included.
Love may be a highway, but sympathy is a minefield strewn with the corpses of those who have fallen prey to the reality of the human condition.
On less cryptic terms: those of us under the duress of physical and psychological deconstruction make lousy bedfellows, lousy conversationalists and lousy friends.
In other words, I'm not good at being the object of sorrow, pity or empathy. Best concern yourselves from afar. My close up blemishes, behavior and moanings tend to grow as a blight, seeming perpetual in nature to those nearby.
Nobody is safe. Not even Amy. As I grow more anguished, she grows more fatigued. As I try to comprehend the course of living salvation, she uses all of herself to guide me. When I hurt, she keeps her tears contained. When I hurt her, she simply hurts.
So, find your proper distance. Feel for me, sure, but don't feel me. The fire is too hot. Even with my dependency, I hurt the ones I love. I don't want to survive if I must tread upon the husks of those who saved me.
This is why I must heal myself.
On a cheerier note, we have our family reunion in Austin this weekend. For most of you who cannot find the words to respond, just know that I care more for you all than I do for myself.
Self is overrated. We are nothing alone. Even so, I hold firm in my belief that I am the answer to my destiny. I must simply listen to others in order to follow the right path. I'm working on that.
See if you can find the missing comma.
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