Thoughts: Getting Better Every Day

I am 30 years old, without two friends in the entire world who would move a piece of furnature for me. This says more about my ability at maintaining human relationships (or rather my exceptional inability), than it does about my low standard concerning who I call a friend. It appears that, for whatever reasons, over the course of my entire life, I've kept about twenty friends.

Ten of these friends I havn't heard from in years and thus, don't really count. Seven of the remaining ten friends will only email or call me occasionally.

Of the three friends left who will actually see me in person; One is "very busy" and naturally flaky - almost never around; totally undependable. One is my lover and doesn't count. The other only really visited me once. Otherwise he's just too poor to drop everything and help me move furnature.

What have I done, to keep people so distant? OK, dumb question. Too obvious.

How about; Why have I helped so many people move furnature and no one helps me? Better question. The answer is that I helped the wrong people move furnature. People who don't give back.

But nothing is lost to the Universe. I have almost always had help when I needed it. Good Karma and all that. Just not help from friends, usually. That is a little sad, but at least I have the rest of my life to try to find a better quality if friend an to be a better quality friend.

My life comes crashing in all around me. I can't breathe, I want to cry, I'm cold, I want to exercise, I'm too scared to leave my room, to leave my bed, to move, too scared to answer the phone and tell someone how I'm feeling. Then I get to feel ashamed for being unable to talk to someone, for being unable to face the World, for being a bum on the government dole, for everything.

The familiar shame spiral in all it's choking, self-pitying glamour. Ruthlessly self-propagating like a computer virus, each new shame causing more, every second feeling more and more trapped. Like a volcano it builds inside me; begging to be let out. To yell at someone, to play the blues on a harmonica, to kill myself, to write these words, to go get drunk, to do anything but feel the way I'm feeling.

My head is a sieve and whatever goes in comes out twisted and perverted. I must hide until these feelings pass. I must turn off my phone. I must avoid everyone, until I feel better. God knows I could make myself feel even worse yet, by taking my confusion (as anger) out on another. A crapy emotional Con my parents bequethed to me- still trying to break myself of the habit. Getting better, every day.

Privacy can be healing. Other must understand. If not, well, Fuck 'em.