14/03/03
to me it's so strange to think that it might not be obvious how vulnerable i am, and i'm not talking about the i-hate-my-body, i-have-no-value-to-society-or-any-individual, no-one-could-ever-put-up-with-all-my-shit, i'm-ordinary-after-all, etc, crap.
my mind gropes clumsily. i recognize my limitations, painfully. i hate so many of the concepts and structures that i grasp at in my attempt to understand or communicate the internal, but i usually don't know where else to start. i don't just automatically assume that the obvious is completely wrong, or that various levels or types of explanations have nothing of value to offer in the process of understanding. maybe every aspect is important, and adds something to the overall picture. i can only work within the prison i'm trapped in at the moment, even if at times it seems like i've gone backward in a sense, to find a starting place, knowing full well that things can end before they begin because of the initial impression i give regarding what my prejudices are and how limited my thinking is. there may be ways of expressing things that represent me better, but right now, certain concepts have power, and i need to painstakingly take them apart, not just dismiss them offhand, to see if there is anything else for me, or if this is as far as i have the energy to go. i start with examples, and make it personal. i've been trapped in other phases before, and i can still vaguely remember them.
i don't have an adequate language. the one i've been using for so long now is not my native tongue. it's alien and there's a strong element of desperation and frustration in my having to resort to it. i'm not trying to understand anyone, except myself, and i feel doubt i can even do that and i can't really believe that it matters at all. i do see that whenever i've tried to understand myself all i've been able to do is project whatever i've discovered onto others. i've wished i had the capacity to understand more, or to cope differently with what i think i did understand, or express it differently. it seems irrelevant, anyway. my words are all conventional gibberish on a page. so flailing i stammer about just being 'myself' and not aiming at anything else, but even that.. i feel blinding anger at the futility of it and the inadequacy of the words. mostly, i just feel trapped, in life, and frustrated that i'm not smart enough to get out. i'm only writing because i hurt, and i want to stop hurting. it's all about *me*. it's like i want to feel that i live separate from everyone else, that i have no effect at all, not even with what i write here, like i don't want to be responsible for any effects i have, because it's already too much to cope with trying to be responsible for all of the 'inadequacies' that relate only to me.
i am thinking all of that, but it's so insignificant compared to what i was feeling, and i think i'm just writing to throw everyone, including myself, off track. i don't know. i was feeling something that felt painful to me, and i started to write. i know nothing can be done about it, and i just have to wait until i feel differently again. it's just so weird how things come out. i think of most of what's in this diary as a 'throwaway' kind of thing. i know i'm judged anyway. it doesn't really matter. there's the odd thing here and there, that if i could pick it out, isolate it, etc.. it's just that there's so much extra, so much i don't want. but if i keep it to myself, i can't breathe, i can't bear the burden of it.