SighSometimes, I wonder what the point of all this mental anguish is. Chemical imbalance, chemical imbalance. It does not altogether make sense to me that there is something wrong with my brain. Indeed, the idea That There is Something Wrong With Me does not really compute.
I am really good at being functional at this point. I excel at functionality. I keep my deadlines; I am relatively well-organized. If someone set down a task before me and said, "Do this," I could. People are harder -- the more I have to be remotely creative, the more difficult things get. I also don't like interacting with people, in my present mood, but so long as I know the general replies called for I am ...functional. Yes.
For the last week, I've been wanting to dig my fingers under my skin. I don't even know why. Watching Black Swan was somewhat unsettling. I know that feeling of prying at my own skin. Such a personal feeling, so odd to see it on the screen; but I know other people want to hurt themselves, too, so I suppose it's not that personal.
It's a pretty bad night, moodwise. It's been a bad week for it, too. Bad week and a half, really, which has degenerated into tonight. I hate this. I also don't hate it, because this misery feels genuine. The trouble, perhaps, is that telling the people around me I am unhappy for no good reason seems unfair. "Sure, I'll hang out with you, but by the way, I am so unhappy that I'm going to bury my face in the covers every twenty minutes or so."