There's this file on my hard drive. It's my logfile. It's where I wrote things, for two years, when I needed to get them down, when I needed to get them out of me. Two years . . . it's been neglected a bit of late, mostly because of LJ. But there's still some new stuff in there occasionally.
Some people have logs or diaries of their own, and they lock them, or put them under their bed, and only tell their closest friends . . . mine was encrypted twice, and hidden deep in the directory structure. It was unfindable. And even if you could find it, you wouldn't even have a clue of what it might be until you'd cracked one layer of encryption . . . and you'd need to crack the other to actually get any data.
If you're feeling a bit hurt right now because you thought you were my friend and you never even heard of this . . . don't. Just by writing this here I'm probably quintupling the number of people who've even heard about it. Or more.
If you think some of the stuff I write in here is bad, or depressed, or painful . . . it's *nothing* compared to some of the stuff in there. When I write in here, I'm not thinking of killing myself, because, well . . . I don't seem to now. (I would write more on this. Some other time.) There . . . everything goes down there, with no fear of sounding insane, and therefore, I do. 12/17/98: "Few things are more depressing than the certain knowledge that whatever you do, no matter how hard you try, it's going to fail, and in a way that looks like your fault." It goes downhill from there . . . except for six months, when I was happy, and then - and now - I feel like I'm teetering on the edge of finally being together and functional, and falling down through all those months I got "off", so to speak, and ending up as far down, or further than, where I'd be if it wasn't for her . . . but that's not what I'm talking about.
As of this writing, five people have read it. Which sounds like an enormous number to me now . . . there were times I thought I'd never show it to anyone. Many times. And still, I only bring it out when there's someone I'd trust with far more than my life - when there's someone I'd trust with my soul, and the souls of my friends, too.
I showed it to my ex. She was the second person. Before she was my ex, before she was even going out with me. It took her an hour to read it . . . later, she said there was an mp3 she had been playing while reading it. And that she couldn't play it anymore without thinking of me, and of the logfile, and crying because of all I'd been through. She *did* care . . . I think. Maybe.
A month or so ago, when I came to this computer, I was getting frustrated with having no music, so I went and snagged Audiogalaxy. A few glitches occured so I went to see if there were any mp3s on this computer, so I could at least test if the client was talking to the server properly.
On ICQ, under Recieved Files, there were a few mp3s from her . . . I honestly don't know how they got there. Perhaps she sent me some MP3s, or perhaps when she was over here she asked her brother to send some . . . I don't know. I recognized almost all of them . . . one of them was the track she'd played. It's playing now - up to its second repeat since I've been writing.
I can't help but wonder. Does she still play this track ever? If she does, does she think of me? If she does, *what* does she think of me?
This whole thing . . . I just wanted to know what she feels. What she *really* feels. I've got . . . a half-hearted "yes, I care". Followed by a "I don't want to talk to you". Which I still don't believe entirely. (She wanted to go to gang parties. How's she planning to do that without talking to me? Never mind the fact that most of the gang has read this journal at this point, and probably isn't feeling wonderful towards her . . .) That's all I wanted.
And it's fine to say "maybe it's time to move on." But I don't seem to be capable. Face it, folks - I've been trying for months. It doesn't work that way. And I can say "sure, I'll just make friends with other people, and have casual friendships," but it doesn't work that way either, I get hopelessly attached to them in one way or another and try to be a wonderful friend, then collapse internally if I feel like I can't help them. Which I feel often. And whenever I start going down *this* path, I feel terrible because I feel like I'm letting all my friends down . . . after all, *they're* giving perfectly good advice. Why can't I follow it? And that path just keeps on going.
I used to have a very complex philosophy for life. I still do. See, I know I exist. I just do. I Think, Therefore I Am. And for whatever reason, I can't believe that the soul just dies at death. I think it goes on to something else. (What it goes on to, I have no idea.) So therefore, this isn't my last life - I'll live eternally. Now, I don't know anyone else exists, but I have to assume they do, because if I assume they don't and I'm wrong, I run the risk of hurting them. And I don't know for certain that the soul *does* continue. Therefore, why should other people be punished for my mistake? I should help them, and continue my life as it goes, and if I'm right about soul continuation or whatever, then I'll get another chance later on, and if I'm not, at least I didn't hurt anyone else through my ignorance.
And this whole chain worked a lot better when I still had at least a modicum of faith in my own abilities.
But I don't. I watched the person I cared for most in the world decide I'd hurt her beyond measure. I trusted her, more than I trusted myself, more than I trusted anyone, and a good part of me still thinks she's right. And I can't change that. How do you function when you know you're prone to going insane? You set up a system where you can measure your own sanity, and that of people you trust, and give priority to certain things.
And I know I was sane then, and I trusted her more than anything. So it must be right to trust her. And I know that she was sane in some ways during that week, and I know she is now, so she must be right . . . right?
I can't think anything else, because I know I can't judge now, and I know I can't even judge whether my friends are trustable or not. And I know I have to break it somehow, but I *can't*. I didn't build that in. It was an oversight, I suppose, because I never thought I'd make that big of a mistake . . . but I don't even know it was a mistake.
And as a result, I have no self-confidence for others. I know what I can do for myself, I know what I can do on computers. That's not an issue. I just have no idea how I can possibly help others, and the fact that a good number of you seem to think I do is rather terrifying. All I can do is stumble on and hope it wasn't just a fluke, hope I don't make a huge mistake at some point in the future and kill one of you somehow. Because I don't know if I will or not. I don't know if I can. I don't know how I can't.
I have this urge to end this entry with a plea. Help me, please, anyone, anyone who can, tell me I'm doing well, pull me out of this pit and I'll be yours forever if you want me . . . just give me someone to lean on and I'll do anything you want.
But . . . you *have* been trying to help. All of you. And it hasn't been working. I can't *be* helped . . . I've tied myself up in emotional Gordian knots that nobody can break. I need a perfect relationship to unravel myself, but I can't handle a relationship, so I need a friendship, but that's not enough . . . and I don't know what to do. Everything I think of spirals away into paradox and chaos, and I feel terrible for not being able to say, yes, you're helping, thank you. Because nothing *does* help, and I'm just draining energy from everyone trying to keep me together, and I'm just accelerating in circles faster and faster. It can't last forever. *nothing* can. Eventually whatever's holding me in will break, and that'll be that.
And I know there are people who said they're available . . . I have half a dozen phone numbers I could call to get reassurance that I'm a good person and all, but . . . what good would it do? I can't *know* it. It doesn't penetrate. The armor I built up over years has come back, only it's facing the wrong way, because there's some large part of me that hates myself completely and considers myself worthless. And I can't argue with it.
. . . I want help. But I can't get help. I half feel like disabling comments on this post, but . . . I remember how annoying that was when someone did it. So I can't do that.
And I know people are going to respond, or I hope they are, but . . . it doesn't *work*. For a while it feels better, but then it all comes crashing down around me and I see just how flimsy those walls I built really were.
And I'm sorry. All of you. I wish I could be better, I wish I could be what all of you need, because there isn't one person I call a friend who hasn't made me happy at least once. But I can't. I'm only me.
The worst part is . . . I don't even know if this is the right track. I don't even remember that anymore. I know it's the right group (or person) but . . . I think it's right.
I just don't remember.