happy birthday, brother.

it's funny how you can read the last six months worth of your thoughts, and realize that you still think most of them. that nothing has changed. that you are still complaining about the same bullshit.

i'm tired of all of it.

i'm sick of the depression.

but still find my lazy ass sitting at this computer, reading facebook profiles to live vicariously through others, fantasizing about the life i could be having, getting jealous over the lives my friends have, and generally telling myself over and over again in my head, "you're fat. you're a lazy bitch. and you don't deserve anything happy. no one will ever love you like this."

this speech goes on repeat for hours. hours. so i read the new york times. or cuteoverload. or shop online for clothes i know won't fit. or watch youtube videos of other people's lives. or think about vacations i could take if i just ran up my credit card a little more.

what kind of existence is this?

i find myself asking, well, even if your mother did manage to check herself into a hospital, would it make any difference in how you see yourself?

the answer, of course, is no.

this unhappiness, this depression, really doesn't have much to do with my mother. i'm starting to understand that now. it's all to do with me. the absolute self-hatred and self-abuse that i inflict upon myself.

i just want to be over it already. take a page from a photo back in the day when i was smiling for real, and not just for a customer's sake.

but it's so hard to climb out of this. i'm trying. slowly. but there's always something to make me slip right back down.

i miss my brother. spending time with him always makes me feel like i'm worth something. just look at him now. he's amazing. all those years of our heartache, of my protecting him, of my pushing and worry and anxiety that he was ok, his drug addiction and his own struggles with depression, resulted in this incredible guy. and it makes me feel like the top of the world, because i know that he validates my life. the indelible memories of us with her. the awkward-as-fuck car rides to her apartment-of-the-month. the screaming matches. the fact that he was the only person for so many years that would listen to my anxieties and fears, and could actually understand them, without just saying, "oh, i'm so sorry." the idea that someday we could heal ourselves with the new friends and families we would create. all these twisted-up memories, and hopes, and dreams that i shared with someone.

maybe that's what i'm really talking about. the ability to share my life with someone. a witness to the good, the bad, the bullshit. i want to share all these feelings with someone, but i'm unwilling to believe there's anyone who would ever want to kiss me/love me/hold me as i am.

(amazing how it is still hard to write exactly what i'm feeling. i constantly want to edit this stream of consciousness.)