i dreamed my therapist kept going on vacation or kicking me out of her life due to insurance mix-ups. and it was in a slum.
dear post secret: somehow, writer's block being one of my biggest triggers this last breakdown makes me feel better about myself, as if it was a respectable reason to go crazy.
dear post secret: i resent sentimentality.
dear post secret: i know i do not want to marry and that, in the distant future, i want to foster older children. but i believe that i will marry and birth children of my "own".
dear post secret: thinking about suicide doesn't comfort me anymore. i panic when i think about it. i regard this as a major step toward maturation.
dear post secret: i don't want to die without seeing my mother's dreams come true first.
dear post secret: my mother and her "companion" have been together since 1995, and i still can't make eye contact with him. he freaks me the fuck out and i'm not alone.
dear post secret: i compulsively repeat (e.g. listen to the same music over and over and over and over and over).
dear post secret: i never draw anymore. it causes distress to even think about drawing. i only like painting now.
dear post secret: i experience satisfaction out of watching my blog-hits go up, and i write more when i'm not satisfied with where they're at, in order to raise the hits. it causes me to wonder if i'm a closet-capitalist.
dear post secret: i'm afraid my sister is going to call me out on my laugh being fake. i can't tell.
dear post secret: i need to consider accepting i'm probably "chameleon-like".
dear post secret: an old friend called me the other day. i let it go to voicemail. i feel she only gets in touch with me to announce wonderful news about her life, and i could really care less no matter how much i tell myself i'm happy for her. when i listened to her voicemail i detected she still hasn't changed, not even a little, at least not in the directions i had always hoped she would. i couldn't decide whether to call her back and be pleasant and seem fake to myself or just not call her and seem like an asshole to myself. i've decided not to call her.
dear post secret: i'm more comfortable with the idea of revealing everything ever about myself to strangers than people i know well.
dear post secret: i'm jealous of everyone and everything.
dear post secret: i don't see myself ever being a true buddhist because of my commitments to being ridiculous that i just wont let go of yet.
dear post secret: i mostly don't care for "modern" art or poetry because, as i'm always assessing everything, i almost always conclusively write it all off as laughable, forced bullshit.