chantico: (Default)
It's awkward to admit that the bad mood that has been dogging me for the past two weeks is not a symptom of my classes or the return to the grind of school-work-homework, nor is it an offshoot of the diet I have been struggling through, or that I have been fighting off illness.

I am dissatisfied in the worst of ways; not with my life but with my approach to it. The charges I'm filing against myself are familiar, but exacerbated now. The person who is on trial these days isn't weak and is not a pushover, and refuses to buckle under the pressure of my own accusations or the spotlight of meticulous self-analyzation. I've filled out, I'm no longer brittle, and that makes it all the worse; before, I could crumple and give up and resign myself to a comfortable cell of complacency, the walls writ with excuses-- now, I would rather destroy myself in a firestorm of criticism or overwork than fail. But . . . as of yet, I still don't succeed.

I suck at self discipline, always have, but now my head *won't leave me the fuck alone* about it. I slack off and despise myself for it, I break my diet and curse my own name. Last year, I did the same, and the result was not eating; punishment for not keeping up or being good enough. This time, however, feels exceptionally different. The punishment wasn't a punishment, it was an excuse, a scapegoat so that I could take some sort of control over myself, so I could wallow in a mud pit of misery and self loathing. I hated how I looked, how I acted, what I did. I starved myself to try and find some sort of handhold on my psyche, a pair of shoulders I could grab and shake-- instead of changing the things that made me so upset in the first place. I dropped a veil over my own intentions. I feel like now the veil has been shredded, and something clear and painfully bright is visible; instead of self retalitation, I am in confrontation with myself, and there is a strength and ferociousness, a brutal honesty on both sides.

I'm so fat, I'm so ugly, I hate how I look . . . Then get the fuck off your ass, you lazy fucking whiner. Eat better. Exercise. Dress well.

My art will never be good enough. You are right-- because you do not practice enough, you do not meet deadlines, you do not challenge yourself. Get it together, and you can be great.

I'm stupid. No, you've given up; you've allowed your brain to rot because you feel inadequate next to others. Choose your words. Think. Stop being complacent because you are intimidated by the brain power of your social circle.

I'm immature. Grow up, then. Let's start with picking up after yourself, paying your bills on time, and using your time better.

I grudgingly admit this is a good thing, but it is not a fun thing. It is having a drill sergeant constantly telling you what a worm you are . . . but seeing the drill sergeant's point of view and realizing how proud they really are of you. It's self parenting. It's beating my own ass with a wooden spoon until I squall so that I will *learn*.

So I am cranky, bossy, depressed, moody and dissatisfied. I am a spoiled child with her toys taken away.

Trial by fire, bitch.
chantico: (Reeling)
You know, I just just thinking recently how irritating it was that I didn't have anything interesting to say on here, mostly because I've been so busy and dealing with so much that I haven't had proper time for contemplation. Having to set aside some of my loftier goals to address those ever present mundane problems means that I've felt rather ancy and shallow the past fews weeks. Appearently, my subconcious agreed. Or *something*. Because, uh, wow, I had a holy shit experience this morning. Cut for those who wouldn't want to read about pyschic dreams, Magic, death and all around weird shit.


All aboard the U.S.S. Kick-In-The-Pants )

Je-sus. What a massive boot to the head.

Yeah . . . I'm wearing my Death of the Endless tee-shirt today.

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chantico

May 2014

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