slova ira

based on real and imagined life

Where have all the GOOD PEOPLE gone? May 7, 2006

She doesn’t make any sense. Stream of consciousness = stream of loopy, discombobulation. It’s not her fault. I like to blame her for it. Someone has to be blamed. It’s not my fault. I didn’t do it. It’s not their fault. Maybe it’s his. At least part of it. It’s not fair that I can’t blame her. It’s not fair that it’s hurting other people and I have to pick up the pieces. I’m not as strong as they think I am. I hurt, too.


I feel small. And I appreciate small gestures of kindness. Which I don’t get often. Not like I did when I was a child. I see these people taking off with their mediocre music and writing and pretentious art. And I can’t even mock it. Because I haven’t put in half the effort they have to get it seen and heard. There’s the rub: How can I be better, even if I have the ideas and the talent, if I don’t have the motivation and the constitution to pull it off? More than that is the fear. What am I afraid of? Fear is the biggest, and next to only (the other being finances) obstacle. There’s plenty to be grateful for right now. Even in the midst of the previous whining. I have many new opportunties coming my way and I’m pushing myself to get things done. They are all getting done,


He’s back. He advises me. It’s so strange because I was missing that for so, so long. He said, “Do I have to talk to you like an uncle?” This brought tears to my eyes because I realized that it must have seemed that way. That’s not fair either. Yes, I’ve made my appointments. And yes, I want to tell you about it. The child in me makes me want to scream that I could have done this or that. I was gifted in so many ways and I had advantages. When they were stripped away my entire life took another course. I look back on that and it pains me. The pain gets less intense each year. I see pictures of the people I used to know. Used to be, I’d look at them for no more than a second because I couldn’t bear the memories that surfaced. Not because they were bad memories. I find it odd that the good memories hurt so much. It doesn’t take a psychoanalyst to figure out that’s because I had so many bad memories after them. But I’m in a really good place now. I can cry and think about why it is that I’m crying without becoming a ball full of mess trying to repress all of my feelings to the point of breaking. But it’s that same child that is having to wake up and stop blaming events and people for the way things turned out. It’s up to me to carve out the next chapter.


And I miss her. I miss her so much. She lifted me up. I do my best. I thought I was winning karma points, as I put it to a friend recently. Not really expecting anything in return. I used to think people were intrinsicly good. My motives are always pure. I struggle with my reactions, I struggle with my responses. Others don’t. Are we different breeds? I am honest. I am good people. Where are all the good people?

Anyone have some pills or a good therapist? I’m really okay. This is just what happens when I’ve been shit on and I’m ragging. (Figuratively. With the shit, not the rag.)