I’m not really sure what I want to do here beyond leaving a milestone.

Today, around noon, according to my mother, I will be concluding my third decade and starting in on my fourth. On the occasion of turning thirty, I decided I needed to put some words down, so I’ll write until I’m done.

I can reflect on my life, were it is, where its been, where its going, but since I do that just about every day, that in and of itself doesn’t seem like enough. I tend to hold things back. A lot. Over the last few year I’ve tried to get better at letting people in, but, though I’ve made progress, it is still difficult for me to let people in. And here I am sitting behind a wall of text and a screen name without talking to people face to face. So much progress.

There are noticable signs of aging.

While I seem to have reached a plateau in my cynicism, I would much rather it be lower. I’m not wealthy, have never been so, and don’t realistically predict I ever will be. There was a long period in my preteens, after my parent’s divorce, when I lived on school lunches and spaghetti at home. I was fed and clothed with a roof over my head, and I can exaggerate my circumstances in my mind and story, but I know what hungry feels like. Due to that, whenever someone offers me money or food, or most any material object I accept it without much in the way of hesitation. I clean my plate unless I really dislike what I’m eating. However when people offer me aid in the form of labor or service I look for ulterior motives. I make a concerted effort now to not ask for things, and get by as best I can without causing burdens on others. This new outlook, along with my past, has resulted in an uncomfortable side effect. I dislike receiving things freely given from my mother. I know what it means to her, and I say my thanks, but I also can’t communicate how uncomfortable it makes me feel.

I am a rational anarchist, and that makes me sad.

I am an agnostic theist, and that gives me hope.

I carry a lot of anger in me. Anger and frustration and brooding loneliness. I know, that a good amount of it is due to my actions. I also know my family has a history of bipolar disorder. I’ve got a fairly short fuse, but through the years I’ve learned to hide it. A lot of the time, most of my energy is put toward keeping my emotions in check. I was torrential in my youth…Ha! Youth! I’m not going to see a doctor about this, though I’ve thought to. Talking through things helps in the short term, but again I’ve got that problem with letting people in, and eventually the cinders flare up again. Also I won’t take medication, for fear of losing the amount of control that I have now.

I got into writing when I was very young and understood the inevitability of my own death. I wrote things out of an I-can-do-that mentality, and because I wanted a legacy so that I wouldn't be forgotten. Eventually, the satisfaction of knowing that I've entertained people with my work has replaced my need to anchor myself in history.

There is just so much baggage. Yes, I know everyone has baggage, but it makes me sad to think that what I go through, with the things I carry around and the things trailing in my wake, might be common or normal. Although that might be a decent explanation for my low opinion of human nature. Everyone trying to cope with their own shit, but constantly forgetting how much is spilling out.

Single for the last four years. Loneliness sets in badly. I spent my nights at work by myself trying to distract myself from my own introspection. I’m listening to music as I write this in order to drizzle out the maudlin rather than pour it. Meeting people is…a burden, unless I’m introduced to them through someone else I know. I can’t really walk up to people I’ve never met and start talking without being super defensive, and I still can’t let go of that one girl. In a comfortable setting, with at least one person present who I know, I can be charming to strangers. Bars don’t work form me. I work by myself. I’ve hung out with the same eight or so people since college ended. I don’t meet people. Yay, neurosis!

…Okay, despite how the above statements might seem, and how this next one often appears to be a lie; I’m not looking for sympathy. Not really sure right now if I want any responses to this. On the off chance some one feels the urge to C! this, I’d say don’t. I just felt that this would be a good time to get some things out. You see how I don’t keep journals? I just make little notes in my head.

There you go E2, that’s everything you get for now. A little insight into one of the catbox regulars. We all wear masks right?

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.