This is used to be a standard practise for me. Get depressed, write a blog. I read somewhere once that keeping a written internal monologue was shown to significantly improve self-mental health, although that claim remains quite unsubstantiated. I guess in a sense, the various blogs I used to contribute to almost acted in a similar way for me, somewhere to vent, somewhere to yell at the world; 'THIS IS ME, I KNOW I'M FUCKED UP'.

Maybe I just got lazy. Maybe my twitter feed kind of replaced it. Maybe maybe maybe.

I was always called naive, I could understand that. I was self-proclaimed inexperienced.

I was talking to a friend today, prepared to give up on everything. A qualified as a dentist, half-way through medical school, and not bad looking. You could assert he 'had it all' as they say. Everything including the overwhelming loneliness and rejection from his recently decaying relationship with his best-friend come ex-boyfriend. I found myself spewing forth the obvious, the clearly significant aspects of him, that given on any resume would make any person swoon. The only reply, 'but I still love him'.

How can you ever possibly answer a phrase like that?

I know I was the one who ended things for me. But I guess, I felt like I had to. It's hard to describe, you start thinking if you've been the one to end things you shouldn't also feel so inadequate. That should be the other person. But I'm sitting here, the theme from The Help blaring through my tinny laptop speakers, attempting to attenuate the air of emotional climax, wondering where I went wrong. I guess it only just occurred to me that all this negativity about everything is stemming from the simple feeling that certain things previously happened has caused this overwhelming sense of inadequacy. I can (even) call it irrational myself, but an emotional response doesn't always follow logically.

I was just left to pick up the hints, the symbols, of your devotion.

H.