I don’t have many words left to write and a lot of the ones I could write out seem stunted and incapable of describing anything; positive, negative, neutral, progressive, appealing. In essence, in their inability to accurately describe what world it is that I live in currently, I suppose that they become descriptive. Like the facial expressions on groups of many people, a lot of them feeling the same things, yet their faces will all seem slightly different. There isn’t really a universal expression for absolutely everything. A lot of our reactions may not be perceived as intended, and our features will draw confusion out of the viewer, in turn creating expressions that are … indescribable.
I feel like I should write this out like a journal entry, but at the same time, I really don’t want to. I want to avoid continuing on the trend of only mentioning the obvious yet tiresome routine of my life as it is; wake up, take medication, obsess, habituate, experience pain, sleep or not sleep, create, go to hospitals and doctors, and continue to struggle. It all seems so mundane to me (so I have no idea why I even write about it). It must seem so histrionic to everyone else. I think I worry about that last part the most. As much as this blog is a personal space just flowing along the endless stream of data thrown at us in the form of lolcats and unintentionally racist memes and ignorance; it sometimes feels as if I should stop being so open. Which contradicts everything I believe in. I believe in honesty and transparency above all else. Perhaps it is just in my nature to over-analyse every possible outcome of every possible situation that may arise from my writing (although, realistically, nothing ever really happens beyond a few messages received from my dad once in a while, or a comment from someone I know). Perhaps it is just my nature to assume that people grow tired of my ramblings and perpetual complaining.
My only gripe with these characteristics of mine is that I myself speak out against experiencing them. Why should I write about something that is not relevant to what is currently happening to me? Why should I grasp frantically in the dark to find something entertaining, witty, and worth the few seconds that it takes someone to read whatever it is I’ve slapped on Facebook as my latest status update? Why should I fear judgement for something that is real? Why would I want to fake scenarios and emotions for some perceived audience that is supposedly made up of people who care or may be interested in keeping tabs on my every day life or inconsequential thoughts and escapades? And if they’re not interested, then why should I care? I have never been fond of popularity or attention. I think I care because it frightens me that possible false judgements are being passed.
And that is where the paranoia starts sneaking in. That thought that perhaps when you’re only posting about the realities of your everyday existence, and if by some horrid chance your existence isn’t “normal” (whose is?) or you are in a world of discomfort and uncertainty most of the time, and that’s all you’re posting about… I think most would assume you’re doing it for attention. Even though you’re not. You literally have nothing else to talk about and would rather avoid the mundane and banal details that come with the slightly better moments where you’re not going to the doctor for once. I have no idea why I have always had such a fear of people thinking I want attention. Probably something to do with some shit that happened when I was a kid that’s best suited to being discussed in therapy. Actually, I think it has more to do with being a “gregarious introvert”, as my father once so accurately described his own personality. I get a lot of this stuff from him. Possibly even the majority of the health issues come from my paternal side of the family.
Oh right, about those health problems. The physical stuff. The stuff I always bitch and moan about. The stuff that most people are probably sick to death of hearing/reading about. That stuff is all the same, except worse, and I’m seeing a private healthcare person now. My parents and grandmother started becoming scared as I am still disappearing (literally – I am incapable of gaining weight and we have no idea why – it’s called “cachexia”), and decided to pull me out of the sometimes competent, mostly inept public healthcare system. So we’re throwing money at some people, one of them being my wonderful primary physician. He is without a doubt one of the best doctors capable of unbiased diagnostician I have ever come across, and he has been my doctor since I was a kid, and he actually listens to me, which is pretty cool. It’s a nice change. He also doesn’t seem to think I’m a hypochondriac-drug-seeking-liar either. So hopefully, we will soon know what is wrong with me. Is it wrong that I have an idea as to what it is already? Or am I just obsessing? I refuse to say the words though. I sometimes think I don’t deserve to be as scared as I am.
Oh, and I have discovered the awesomeness that is My Little Pony – Friendship is Magic. There’s another thing you can supposedly (if my brain is to be believed) use to throw some judgement and mockery in my direction.