There is so much to report, but none of it will be as interesting to you as it is to me. That's good, though. For a very long time, nothing was as interesting as it seemed. Nothing was special. Well, not as special as I needed it to be.
This is special. It really is. There will come a time when the luster is gone, I know that. Maybe I'll come to know of the secrets that I'm now ignorant of. If that happens, will this thing no longer be interesting? I can't keep things lively all by myself. My thoughts aren't that clear, my life isn't that exciting, and I'm no longer the type to make up too many stories. When I do make up stories, they resemble some kind of truth; they hold the same emotional weight as the truth, as I've always thought that it's just as important to feel what's going on as it is to know about the situation.
Am I happy? Quite. Don't take that the wrong way, though. I'm not Let's-Go-Team-Go, cartwheel in the air, throw me up to the top of the pyramid, cheerleader happy. I'm just content. In a way, that is. Eighty percent of me is pretty content. The other twenty percent is up for debate. The important thing is that I'm not feeling as I normally do (and that's not even a normal way to feel).
There's a little sliver of me that feels dead. That little bit can grow to be quite big, you know. It's like adding water to it makes it expand. No one is watering my Dead Yard at the moment. One day, with the help of trained professionals and a few good pills, that deadness will go away. Maybe. There's the possibility (which I think is highly likely) that the deadness with subside (kind of like it is now), but still be there. There's always room for despair. Except, once it's subsided, my despair won't be as bad or as intense as it's been in the past. That's the important part, the necessary ingredient of the All-American Good Life -- Be miserable, but in a happy way!
Where is this contentment coming from? I keep asking myself that. It's come to my attention that I rely too heavily on others to make me happy. There's something that seems to be broken inside of me, that has trouble turning on the "Happy" light. Somehow, I just can't flip my switch, ya know? I can't do it, but others can. Then, once everyone is gone and I'm the only one left, it hits me that I was only living on the high that someone gave me. True happiness, the kind that doesn't disappear when you're all alone, tends to overlook me. Maybe I overlook it myself. Is that what's happening now? Am I getting high from the attention of special others? Or, am I making myself happy? If I am, what have I been doing to cause happiness?
I don't do anything at all. I sleep 5 hours at night, awake early in the morning (usually before my mom has left for work), do nothing all day (with no naps), cook dinner (usually my only meal of the day), and do another exciting term of nothing at night. Writing, in all shapes and sizes, has become my pastime. It's always been my pastime, but it's stronger than ever right now. My urge to write hasn't been this strong in a long time. Still, is writing making me happy?
Remeron can't possibly cause true happiness, but it dulls the ache and pain of depression. I owe quite a bit of my contentment to the drug. My mom hasn't noticed a change, as I still try to avoid people and like to stay to myself, but I know that it's helped. She doesn't feel the emotions running through my veins, but I do. My insides have changed. They were much bleaker a few months ago. The blinds are now opened, not fully, but enough to let some light in. Light is good.
I could ramble on some more, but I won't. It is time to remove my face mask, maybe fix something to eat (highly unlikely), and find something else to do. The day is filled with possibilities that I probably won't meet, but it might be nice to mingle a little.
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