my friends around here kinda suck. as of late a handful of them are ditching me every other day. nobody calls me back anymore, i am ignored for some reason. am i that annoying to be around? am i that terrible of a person? maybe they’re just tired of me. that’s a terrible thing to say, not only in the vein of self-pity but also because it makes it seem like i’m accepting and okaying such behavior.
it’s really playing havok with me right now. even with my meds, i’m feeling as low as i did last summer at certain points. this time it’s not unfounded, though. then, i would just ignore everyone and sit in my room wallowing in an inexplicable despair. now, it’s the fact that i’m being ignored causing this. or at least, it’s the spark lighting off my latent emotional issues hidden under a coat of lexapro.
writing posts and blogs like this sometimes makes me miss writing. i used to love it so much, all those years ago. it was an outlet for my creativity, it offered me catharsis, and generally boosted my self-esteem when people praised me for it. but it was always so whiny. i never liked my own style at all. it’s a hallmark of the stephanie meyer generation of authors and readers, people who can’t (or won’t) grow out of their hormonal teen anguish, instead stewing in it like a hot muck. and through their work they invite readers to sink into the tar as well, to stagnate in such awful bullshit. that’s how i see myself as an author. backwards.
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