Strange, Too. (filleconcrete) wrote,
Strange, Too.
filleconcrete

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Phantasmagoria.

I fail to realise that much like the protagonist in my favourite book, American Psycho, there are many people beyond help or even simple kindness. There are always people who will not, can not respond or comprehend decent human behaviour.

Why this upsets me so much, I am unsure. I am beyond merely sad, I am actually ill physically: my stomach an angry knot, my limbs tense and shaking, my eyes watering with tears. Further aiding my disease, the logic that I shouldn't be so hurt does not evade me.

I had dinner with Brian and his mom outside in their backyard last night. And it was good, and there was love. I have a lot of good things to look forward to. My phone was deluged with text messages from my friends professing love and desire and then "anger" over me not going out last night. Plenty of people love and care for me. I am not alone, and even if I was, I've been belatedly, but definitely given the tools needed to survive if not flourish.

I can't seem to accept that not everyone will like me or at least not think badly of me. I know this is a juvenile, romantic notion, wish, but I am genuinely upset and should probably face it so as better to get over it. Furthermore, making me feel even worse: does this mean I am ungrateful for the amazing and ultimately rare amount of love and care I receive on a daily basis?

I feel fragile, knowing that now the core of my problems in life amounts to, in essence, phantasmagoria. I am a self-imposed martyr, Janessa of Arc, and in the end my biggest problem is probably me, myself: relentless self saboteur.

God, I sound so pretentious sometimes.
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