Well, here I am again, ready to burn.

I have been getting increasingly frustrated and irritable lately. It’s bee n building for quite some time. I have the urge to snap at people for the tiniest of things.

I don’t do it, of course. I refuse to take my bad mood out on others. That’s what my Dad did, and I vowed to never become him.

But I get the urge. A lot.

So I figure this has all been building to another season of roasting in my own fires and feeling the burn as it both torments and cleanses me.

Fire cleanses all. Good, clean fire. It burns away the impure, and leaves only that which is strong and solid and worthy.

I am not crazy.

I’ve been thinking “I hate my life” a lot lately. That’s never a good sign. Generally means my background irritatiom level has risen to the point that it doesn’t take much of a disturbance to make it splash over into my conscious mind as frustration, aggravation, and general agitation.

But I refuse to reject or suppress this anger. That would be foolhardy – suppressed emotions wreak havoc on the psyche as they struggle to be heard.

It would also be a waste, because anger is energy and energy is something I desperately need. I may not be happy but at least I am activated and that means there is at least a possibility of getting something or other done.

I just have to let it all build up inside of me until video games just don’t cut it any more and my mind and body demand I do something harder.

Something where I feel the strain. Something that stretches my capacities. Something that burns off some of the excess energy in the system instead of just letting it lurk their latently until it becomes depression.

I am sick of anger turned inwards. I don’t fucking deserve it. I am one hell of a guy. Funny, sweet, talented, kind, compassionate, and intelligent as FUCK.

It’s quite the package, really.

I deserve a way better life than the invalid one I live now.

But when i try to reach out beyond my current limitations and truly come alive, that sad little voice inside me says “no. ” and I turn away from the light and weep inside.

It’s my damage, I guess. The actual deep psychic wounds caused by being raped by a stranger at the age of 4. That experience left a deep and terrifying scar that runs all through my psyche.

In fact, my whole psyche is structured around it. Like I am wrapped up in a tight ball around the wound. The idea is to keep the world away so the world can’t hurt me again or aggravate the wound.

But the cost is far too high.

For one thing, it keeps me from being able to deal directly with reality. On a psychological level, I am always facing inwards, and trying to deal with reality by lookign at a mirror tilted in just the right way.

No wonder I am so clumsy, and I get so confused by things like left and right.

I am seeing only the mirror image of life.

For another, my defenses do such a good job of protecting the wound that it has never healed. How could it? It’s hermetically sealed behind a wall of glass.

Nothing living can survive that.

No wonder I don’t feel like I am really alive. Instead, I feel like a ghost i my own life. I feel like nothing I ever do matters. Or counts. Or means a god damned thing.

I am a prisoner serving a life sentence for someone else’s crime. I did nothing wrong – something wrong was done to me. But I am the one crippled for life by it.

There ain’t no justice.

Oh, but it gets worse. You see, the nature of my illness has made it very hard for me to seek treatment for it. It made me shy and passive and a very poor advocate for myself.

It made me isolate myself to the point where I barely existed and suffer without treatment apart from meds for many, many years because I did not have the strength or courage to ask for anything.

Asking for things is hard for me. The desire to disapper and not be noticed screams at me the entire time that I should not be doing this, that I should not be drawing attention to myself at all,let alone actually expecting anything of anyone ever.

My childhood made it clear to me that I deserved nothing except food, shelter, and the bare tolerance of my existence.

You know, as long as I didn’t remind anyone I was still there. So I had to be very quiet and unobtrusive and never, ever ask for anything and do everything I could to maintain the illusion that my parents only had three kids.

You know, the planned ones. The ones that were wanted. The ones who had already divvied up all the love, attention, and resources among themselves and weren’t going to relinquish one iota of anything of it in order to deal me in.

And I sure as hell wasn’t strong or confident enough to demand it. Or even politely request it. I grew up being grateful for whatever boons happen to fall out of the sky for me because my parents happened to remember me that day.

No wonder I feel like I am not really here.

It’s how I was raised.

I can’t remember ever feeling like I was equal to my siblings in any way. It was very clear that there was them, and me. They got parental attention as a matter of course, not as an afterthought. They got support as well, almost as if they were worth somethbing to my parents.

Me? I got nothing.

It’s what I deserved.

There is more I could sat about my stupid fucking life, but I am tired.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.