…there is no answer to that question, is there?
Even if I were to say that I do it because it’s therapeutic, that’s only true up to a certain point. All of the ranting and raving in the world won’t make this go away, it won’t make me feel any better, and it’s just an all-around waste of time and space. Of my own brainspace, really, since I don’t think anyone is even reading it, and I’m killing myself slowly by devoting so many neurons to it. I’d rather just throw myself in front of a train and get it over with, thanks very much.
I can’t blog in “my own voice” because I don’t currently feel like I have one. Lazy lumps on a log don’t usually have one. I had trouble identifying myself as a runner even when I could run, because I always felt like an impostor; now I really feel like it’s all just a big fat cruel joke, and none of it ever happened. The amount of money I have spent lately is frightening, and I don’t just mean the medical bills. This always happens to me when I get depressed: I turn to retail therapy. And it never works. I know this, and yet I keep doing it.
At least things won’t run away from me when / if I need them. People never fail to pull an abandoning act.
But first I have to get slapped in the face. I had to block about half of my Facebook friends from my feed, because it hurt too much to see them all gloating about races I was also supposed to be doing. Instead I just get to sit around and … um … eat and get fat? Many people might call that a dream come true.
I call it a nightmare.
And speaking of which, I had the most bizarre dream last night (in between my second and third stretches of sleep — the concept of sleeping through the night is quite foreign around here)… I accidentally swallowed a toothpick and it got lodged in my throat. I wasn’t even using the toothpick, my dad was doing something with a whole pile of them, and I have no idea how it wound up in my mouth, but whatever. Unfortunately, I woke up before I choked to death.
Such is the story of my life.