Well, well, well... seems my years of recreational reading of psychology articles has finally brought its result, where I could finally self-diagnose what the hell my problem has been all these years. The answer is, of course, very boring and trivial. All I am is a love addict.
If you read what it feels like to get high on amphetamines.. you will get the idea of what I, so cleverly, can achieve by getting constant.. chronic..painful.. illogical crushes on unavailable people.
Childhood abuse trauma. Check.
Craving attention from father but never getting it. Check.
Getting myself into abusive relationship. Check.
Finally getting myself sorted out and getting into a healthy, normal relationship...but! Not being able to be satisfied with it nor knowing how to process it properly. Check.
Drift off into a fantasy world built up on crumbs of reality just to get my next fix from. Check.
It's all very sad really.
But at least I finally know and can explain all of my stupid-ass behavior and feelings so far.
Now, I'm trying to take every step as a lesson and do my best to learn from it..but it takes so much self control that sometimes I just don't have the power to fight it.
Wow.
I got my explanation to everything.
All I have to do now is.. QUIT.
Hm, the only time quitting wouldn't actually make me a loser. Riding this feeling gives so much meaning and inspiration though.. if only I could find a way to turn it into art.
And then I get angry.
Why, all these amazing feelings.. no need for sleep.. elevated energy... creative inspiration..have to be dismissed as psychological disorder.
Sure they are painful. But they make me feel so much. Make me so inspired. Gosh.
And then comes the crash.
The worst was last year. Everything was so trivial. So gray. Every moment felt like I was suffocating from the overwhelming, boring, thick flowing reality.
Mundane. Mundane. Mundane.
So, so, so thankful for the mundane.
But oh-so-curious for the extraordinary. The unknown. The unavailable.
These two people just don't get along inside my head.
