My dreams swept into the dustbin, and me along with them…

I got a job.

Lately I find myself crying over nothing and I can’t stop.
I know it’s just depression.
My mom suggested I take something for it.
At three different points in my life I’ve taken anti-depressants because of problems with anxiety.
Sure, I’m a naturally sullen person, but that didn’t change while I was on them.
Each time, I talked like a flapper on a duck’s ass…even more so than usual.
I couldn’t sleep.
And I experienced more suicidal thoughts.
I don’t think it’s wise for me to go down that road again.
And as taking pills won’t change where I am in my life, it’s not as if pain would go away by my taking them.

I know that losing Chloe is part of it.
Residual pain of feeling useless from not having a job is part of it.
But it is now accompanied by a new pain of feeling like a failure, a feeling that this will be my life, a feeling that I will live, die…and my name will be forgotten.
I can write while I work to be sure, but it’s the acting and singing part which causes me pain.
I want to perform.
I’ve always wanted to perform.
I want to write indie dramas which would make people examine the human condition…their own lives.
And I want to act in them.

But the older I get, the harder it’ll be for this to happen.
I’ll only be 23 next month and I feel like…that’s it.
It’s too late.

I have to keep this job because no one in my life believes in me and I would never ask that anyone else be forced to support me in my pursuits.
I don’t ask and no one answers.
And if I did, no one would answer.

I am lost.
Not in the way that so many others are lost…for I know where I want to go.
I’m lost because I can’t find how to get there.
I’m lost because this love is as important as any other and I live without it.
Shall I abide in this dull world which in its absence is no better than a sty?

Tell me something true...

The truth is a nasty cough syrup no one wants to have to taste.
But I thrive on its bitterness.
I take too much and it lives in me, shutting me down, little by little.
A noble death.

I knew a man who seemed to like me, who in fact, could not seem to leave me alone.
He disagreed with everything I said and not even passionately, as he had no reasons to support his disproval of my ideas, my likes, and my dislikes.
I loathed him.

I see now that in part, what I hate in him is what I hate in myself…a resilient stubbornness.
I am in pain today at the thought of hating myself more than usual.
But my stubbornness is different from his.
Mine is not free of passion.
Is it wrong to defend a belief to the death when you feel strongly about something, to try and make credible arguments until you’re blue in the face?
Is it wrong to not give up when you think something is truly important…even when there may be no hope of convincing your opponent?

I am not so closed-minded as to be immune to the convincing arguments of others.
Am I then just the right amount of stubborn or am I indeed closed-minded, but cannot see it?