*sighs* General reflections...
May. 11th, 2001 06:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
silversolitaireCame home for the weekend. Have to clean up the living room now, because my parents are having a party tonight. Fuck... I hoped they'd be sitting outside, then I could haven taken advantage of the cocktails and other than that go inside and get drunk gradually. Now the weather deteriorated and it looks like they'll be going inside T_T. Great...
I'm in a mood of general pissed offness. Life just sucks. I miss people who don't miss me at all and I disappoint those who do. I'm still working on plucking up the courage... I'm under pressure. If I don't tell my Dad that I want to go into therapy permantently, I'll soon be left in the dark. I wish it wasn't so difficult...
I guess I'll soothe the pain now by drawing a bit more. Then I'll clean up (*growls*) and maybe I'll write a bit. I actually managed to write something yesterday night. That was pretty cool. I still think it sucks ass, but at least I'm moving on. My counselor said that I'm in the habit of ignoring my accomplishments and seeing my faults and failures irrationally big. I think she's right, but I can't help it. I look at other people's paintings and I'm terribly envious and sad, because I'll never be able to do that. I read other people's stories and the feedback they got and just want to die. I don't see that my stuff is good, too, and that I get wonderful feedback, too. I just don't see it. I can't help it.
What I find curious is that when I draw, I'm always very fond of my drawings/paintings when they're new. I always love them and look at them all day. When they get older, though, I start to hate them. I can't stand them anymore, I think they suck so much. I basically feel like that about all my old paintings. I get so embarrassed when I look at my older Malfoy pic or Ronan. I was so fond of Ronan last year and now I just hate him. I'm tempted to take them all off my homepage even. But then I tell myself it's an improvement I can see, so it's a good thing. I'm getting better.
With my writing it's just the other way round. I always hate what I'm writing. I never like it. But when I look at it a year later or so, I usually think "Wow! That's great, how on earth could I write that??" and I'm really pleased. But then I get anxious again, because I feel like I'm losing something. I wonder if I'll love the stories that I hate so much later, too...
I'm still feeling self-destructive. It's such a strong feeling sometimes. It's just an urge. When I walk past a knife or something poisonous I get the urge to take it. Just like that. Just like I get the urge to see my blood, a powerful, persistent craving... I can just sit there, thinking about nothing in particular and suddenly I get this image in my head of a large, shiny knife and I want to drive it through my body, or slit my wrists. Just like that, for no reason at all. Too weird...
I'm still afraid of finishing my book... it'll be so painful... I hate it when that happens. It's told retrospectively, why the hell couldn't the narrator give a hint earlier that one of them would be dying?? This is so weird, two years ago or so I would get into the fiercest fights with people who wanted warnings for stories that involve character deaths. I thought it spoiled the whole story to tell this in advance. But now I'm at a point myself where I no longer can take bad surprises. That's killing me. I couldn't stand watching Armageddon, not knowing who will die. When I realized that the beloved character of that book was going to die, I felt terribly depressed. I even cried, as if he had been my friend. And in a way he was... all the people I read and write about are my friends. I never forget them. Maybe I was destined to study literature. I never forget characters from books. Of books I liked, anyway.
There's this guy in my American Culture class (yeah, such things exist! *snerks*) whom I like a lot. I already knew him from last term's Same Sex lecture. I know he's gay. He never told me, but I see that. And I gave him hints that I'm a sister and apparently he caught on. He sat down next to me last session and this one, too. Last time I had The Front Runner openly on the table and today I had the local gay magazine. He grinned at me, took it from me and said "So, let's check the personal ads and see who saw me on the Metro and fell in love with me and now wants to see me again! Ah! No, New York... hardly." That was funny. We then talked for a bit and I recommended The Front Runner to him and he told me a story he experienced yesterday. Really funny. It was actually really personal, he had nearly been assaulted by four beefy guys in the park. I told him to stay out of the park at night if he doesn't want to cruise. He's nice. He even dyes his eyebrows! LOL
Brrrr, I'm cold. Looks like my parents won't be sitting outside tonight... T_T
I'm in a mood of general pissed offness. Life just sucks. I miss people who don't miss me at all and I disappoint those who do. I'm still working on plucking up the courage... I'm under pressure. If I don't tell my Dad that I want to go into therapy permantently, I'll soon be left in the dark. I wish it wasn't so difficult...
I guess I'll soothe the pain now by drawing a bit more. Then I'll clean up (*growls*) and maybe I'll write a bit. I actually managed to write something yesterday night. That was pretty cool. I still think it sucks ass, but at least I'm moving on. My counselor said that I'm in the habit of ignoring my accomplishments and seeing my faults and failures irrationally big. I think she's right, but I can't help it. I look at other people's paintings and I'm terribly envious and sad, because I'll never be able to do that. I read other people's stories and the feedback they got and just want to die. I don't see that my stuff is good, too, and that I get wonderful feedback, too. I just don't see it. I can't help it.
What I find curious is that when I draw, I'm always very fond of my drawings/paintings when they're new. I always love them and look at them all day. When they get older, though, I start to hate them. I can't stand them anymore, I think they suck so much. I basically feel like that about all my old paintings. I get so embarrassed when I look at my older Malfoy pic or Ronan. I was so fond of Ronan last year and now I just hate him. I'm tempted to take them all off my homepage even. But then I tell myself it's an improvement I can see, so it's a good thing. I'm getting better.
With my writing it's just the other way round. I always hate what I'm writing. I never like it. But when I look at it a year later or so, I usually think "Wow! That's great, how on earth could I write that??" and I'm really pleased. But then I get anxious again, because I feel like I'm losing something. I wonder if I'll love the stories that I hate so much later, too...
I'm still feeling self-destructive. It's such a strong feeling sometimes. It's just an urge. When I walk past a knife or something poisonous I get the urge to take it. Just like that. Just like I get the urge to see my blood, a powerful, persistent craving... I can just sit there, thinking about nothing in particular and suddenly I get this image in my head of a large, shiny knife and I want to drive it through my body, or slit my wrists. Just like that, for no reason at all. Too weird...
I'm still afraid of finishing my book... it'll be so painful... I hate it when that happens. It's told retrospectively, why the hell couldn't the narrator give a hint earlier that one of them would be dying?? This is so weird, two years ago or so I would get into the fiercest fights with people who wanted warnings for stories that involve character deaths. I thought it spoiled the whole story to tell this in advance. But now I'm at a point myself where I no longer can take bad surprises. That's killing me. I couldn't stand watching Armageddon, not knowing who will die. When I realized that the beloved character of that book was going to die, I felt terribly depressed. I even cried, as if he had been my friend. And in a way he was... all the people I read and write about are my friends. I never forget them. Maybe I was destined to study literature. I never forget characters from books. Of books I liked, anyway.
There's this guy in my American Culture class (yeah, such things exist! *snerks*) whom I like a lot. I already knew him from last term's Same Sex lecture. I know he's gay. He never told me, but I see that. And I gave him hints that I'm a sister and apparently he caught on. He sat down next to me last session and this one, too. Last time I had The Front Runner openly on the table and today I had the local gay magazine. He grinned at me, took it from me and said "So, let's check the personal ads and see who saw me on the Metro and fell in love with me and now wants to see me again! Ah! No, New York... hardly." That was funny. We then talked for a bit and I recommended The Front Runner to him and he told me a story he experienced yesterday. Really funny. It was actually really personal, he had nearly been assaulted by four beefy guys in the park. I told him to stay out of the park at night if he doesn't want to cruise. He's nice. He even dyes his eyebrows! LOL
Brrrr, I'm cold. Looks like my parents won't be sitting outside tonight... T_T
