In general, I tend to think too much. I can't stop it. Neither of my parents ever directly told me that I was or still am affected by ADD today, but my mom's lighthearted jokes and my own evaluation of myself seem to point me in the direction of thinking, "mmmyeah, you're a fucking spaz". It's ok. I don't chase butterflies. I'm not hyperactive. I don't hit strangers. But I can never seem to focus on the important stuff like, "why aren't you looking for a job?", or, "how can I turn sliced cheese, mustard and some cream cheese into a meal?", or, "what the fuck are you doing with your life?". Just today my dad asked me to call him about doing my taxes, and yet here I sit, not doing my taxes. I don't have the answers to these questions.
However, despite my apparent fetish for wallowing in misery, I can't stop thinking. I must look such a fool to the outside world; a loner, a loser, a problem. But I am fascinated by cause and effect, especially in an introspective sense. I'm very out of touch with my own emotions, and I've been on a crusade to listen more attentively to them for a while now.
It's not working out.
But I'm analyzing every little move I make, to the point where I see patterns in my behavior that are reflected in others around me. Call it normal common sense to be able to understand that someone is mad at you; I want to know why anger is their reaction. If I catch on before it's been brought directly to my attention, I call it a fucking miracle.
I snuffed out my anger a long time ago. For a large portion of my life anger was my driving force. It inspired me. It comforted me. It was the only emotion I felt was justified. I got angry, I wrote. I got pissed off, I played the drums. My parents got on my nerves, I got lost in the woods so I could find my way out. It was my release. Don't get me wrong, I still get annoyed by typical things; damp clothes in the drier, my roommate's cat shitting on the wall again (yes, that actually happens fairly frequently), missing my train by two seconds because some fatass escalefter won't budge when I ask for passage, an apathetic parent lets their three year old run between my legs while I'm carrying hot food at work, or I'm out of weed. It happens. I'm still human, as far as I'm aware. But my inspiration is gone.
I banished my rampant rage from my body because it was doing serious harm. By the time I moved out of my mom's house when I was 17, I had posters of shit I didn't even like on the walls just so I could hide the innumerable fist-sized holes in my walls. I shattered a pool cue over my own head. I had mastered the art of throwing a screwdriver point-first into the wall from a distance of six feet, just in case. I'd get so worked up that I didn't realize what I was doing or saying until after all was said and done and I had a fresh hole to be covered with a map of San Andreas. My friends felt much the same, and the ones that didn't allowed me to escape that world into one that didn't matter.
When I decided to finally put down the torch and pitchfork and cut the world a little slack, it was great. I totally changed. I discovered love, real love. Granted, later it was hideously stripped away and partly by my own hand, but I found it nonetheless.
I'm still learning to love myself. It's a long road.
But along with my anger went my inspiration. Nothing moves me. Nothing excites me. I dropped out of school (HUGE mistake for anyone with the misfortune to be reading this), lost touch with friends, lost touch with life. I'm still struggling to catch up.
Ketchup.
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