For the first time in years, I've managed to gather all my notebooks and organize them by date range. Five years' worth of notebooks. Five years' worth of weighing the tears in one hand against the laughter in the other, and wouldn't you know? Laughter comes up a little light.
I've been reading a lot of psych lit lately, which is only a little better than WebMD for self-diagnosis. I have a whole news stand's worth of issues. I know I got 'em, because the things that I regard as 'normal' behavior greatly interfere with my ability to give and accept intimacy. And I don't want that. I used to think that once I got my shit together, I'd get the girl and live happily ever after for a little while, but the last couple of times I almost got serious with someone, I ran away full afterburner before anything could be acknowledged between us.
Later on, I'd tell a trusted friend that I simply lost interest and that was that --- but that's only half the story. I lost interest, yes, but cried about it later when no one could see me. Looking back through my journals, I noticed that not only do I only write when something's wrong with me, but that I'm also afraid to tell myself that I actually want something and am willing to be vulnerable to get it.
That's the problem with being really really fucking smart: you can rationalize your way into and out of anything. You can convince yourself that you're blissfully devoid of human needs and desires. And you can put on a convincing act, one that fools your friends, family, and colleagues into believing you've got your shit together and that this whole thing's a choice, gorrammit! Back when I was able to try on new personalities like some people try on shirts, it would have been easy to change this thing about me I don't like. But now it's gonna require real work. I'm not sure if I'm ready, but know damn well that I'll never get to a point where I'll be 'ready' (whatever that means).