Tuesday, January 13, 2004

I spent this past lousy weekend thinking a lot about my faults and how to fix them. I went about it, typically and predictably, in the most neurotic fashion possible. I was obsessive, emotionally strained, and physically drained past the point of insomnia, inflamed stress disorders and sanity.

And after much reflection, I have to come to this conclusion: I am entirely too neurotic.

It may be obvious to everyone who's ever met me. And I know that anybody very close to me must have muttered it under their breath a hundred times. But it's still hard for me to come to that conclusion. It's hard for me to admit that I need to calm my compulsions.

I love my compulsions. I'm a neurotic's neurotic, and there's nothing I love so much as my own neuroses. In large part, I'm still the little girl who used to watch herself cry in the mirror, torn apart inside by the image in the mirror's suffering. Only now I'm not looking in the mirror; reflection means something entirely different. But it's essentially the same process. I stare into my soul until I find a scar, and then I make myself fresh scars, weeping over those which came before.

I resolve to work on my neuroses. To surrender my fictitious self and stop swooning over my own distorted image in the mirror.