A lack of motivation.

I just spent close to an hour--if not more--speaking in depth to a dear friend of mine. I am very fond of her, as she is intelligent and kind, and there are quite a few things we have in common. She has been a good friend of mine for a very long time.

As I posted a few days ago, I tend to lie about my well-being. And, according to the responses I recieved, this is not at all uncommon. I tried again, today, to be pleasant, and to make things seem as if all were well. Either she knows me better than most, or I lie worse than I know. She offered to listen, and I took it.

I did not mean to say as much as I did. I worry so that I may upset her, or worry her unnecessarily. At the same time, I know this is something friends do for one another. If only I were able to return the favor.

I have been feeling a deep sense of despair for quite awhile. A hopelessness, almost a feeling of emotional starvation. I feel that a part of it stems from a sudden and inexplicable faith crisis. For over a year I have held steadfast to the ideals of my faith, somethign new for me, something providing hope. The idea of salvation and resulting afterlife offers to me a guarantee of peace, of rest...and for reaons I would rather not divulge, I wonder if it applies to me at all. With that doubt now clouding my thoughts, the lingering depression grows ever-darker.

Thoughts of self-harm and suicide cling madly to me, and although I am far better than I was a month ago, I still feel apathetic toward the notions. Unfortunately, working in a construction trade gives us ample opportunity to not only use available tools, but to formulate believable excuses to explain the obvious wounds.

It is not my place to do such things. However, with therapy becoming intolerable, and with the rising pressures of both JATC classes and the impending overtime ticket at work, I am finding less of a reason to want to deal with this effectively.

Pondering Winterkill.

I usually try to type something descriptive in the subject line, but this evening, my mind is blank.

And, after staring at this screen for twenty minutes, my mind is still blank. I need to speak, I need to release this; and I cannot, of my own volition. These damn lies.

A dozen brothers, each one alone. They look upon their gifts: Thistle, steel, blood and wine. Each gift is unique, and powerful. Each gift is coveted. They are necessary to withstand the desolate times, the Winterkill.

My mind is wandering. I know there is bourbon in the pantry, I saw it just teh other day. And yet we work tomorrow, and it is not advisable to drink as I would like on a work-night.

However, I take no issue with a cigarette, and it will not affect my work performance tomorrow. I believe I shall partake in that, instead.

Half-truths and deception.

It is all well and good to lie. We all do it, I believe. In fact, it very well may be an intrinsic part of our human nature.

I have made an art of lying, fronting, falsifying information. It suits me, though I wish it did not. I cannot so easily lie to everyone; there are a few people who know the difference.

In the past, my lies were a matter of survival. Pretending to be "okay" because, if not, the consequences would have been severe. At first, that was all. Only for survival. Then it became easier to lie, easier to cover the truth or bend it to suit my needs. Easier to lie, because the truth drives others away. It soon was my second nature. Yes, I am doing well. Yes, all is safe, no issues at hand. Yes, I am doing the best I am able with what I have.

And still, I do the same. Except that I cannot seem to stop lying: not to others, not to myself. Even when I manage to admit that I am unwell, I hesitate in relinquishing the entire truth. Even now, there is so much more on my mind than this. I simply cannot bring myself to come to terms with all occuring right now.

Very nearly a month ago, I attempted something boundlessly stupid. It was something I scarcely recall, and yet something that seemed right at the time. I do not know why it keeps coming back to this: the urges, the clues, the words. And the truth. The painfully brutal truth. I really do not know why I am writing this.

Difficult choices.

Hollowed: not to be confused with hallowed...not by far.

As certain times of the year rise again, I find myself in the same exact place as before. It seems I have not improved at all. And yet, I am not the same person I was a year prior. Ergo: if I have changed, and yet, I have not improved, what does that dictate?

Exactly.

I daresay things have spiralled more now than before. There are reasons, of course; issues and persons of our past have revisited in a horrific manner. Obvious triggers, with which I must contend, and Zillah is still a force more immense than I first knew. Even my own behavior of late has been erratic, I am told. Though, Denial is my very close friend.

And so, therefore, I feel hollowed: an empty shell, riding existence as if it were a violent gust of wind, spiralling hither and thither with no choices of my own.

Yes. Of course there are always choices. However, one must be realistic: at times, there are a set of choices presented that no one, ever, should be forced to decide. Especially since the "correct" choice is often the most difficult to implement.

Labels.

Asarian-host.net... (Or .com, or .org, I did not especially pay attention.) I have been recieving emails with this tag, asking if I would like free, anonymous e-mail hosting from them. I did minor research and found it is linked to dissociation, and multiplicity.

Why do people need to feed their insecurities with labels? It should not matter if we are Many or not. At all. Why would I want to openly advertise that? I fucking hate it. The influx of journals, and self-help books, and survival books, and "poor me" autobiographies, and disability forums...they astound me. Why are others obsessed with this? Some people survive their abuse only to wallow in it for decades after, refusing treatment, or becoming so focused on treatment that it hinders daily functioning. I never want to go to work in the mornings. I never want to attend school at night. I never want to function, I tire of it, and yet I do, because it is what I must do.

Perhaps I hate myself, and it is why I am pissed off at everyone else.

That, and I feel betrayed.

A "friend of a friend" or some such began e-mailing me. No worries, I like speaking to new people. This is the one who "recommended" me for the Asarian-host e-mail address. I spoke with her at length perhaps two months ago, for the first time. We exchanged alot of information, and thought it was interesting that we were Many, and asked. Again, I take no issue with that. Most ask questions. But then she began changing herself, molding herself. I did not notice at first. But now, she has suddenly turned her derealization into full-blown multiplicity, with oodles of recovered memories. All of which--both alters and memories--reflect what I have told her. At least she could have the decency to create soemthign more unique. I mean really...the cheek.

And what really angers me is this is not the first time it has happened. The Council says I need to speak more. I disagree. If anything, it should be less. You say I am programmed...perhaps I am somehow pretending myself. All of this is bullshit.

Why is it so goddamn important to be worse off than another? Why must it always be a damn contest? If I say to a fellow cutter that I needed sutures, then suddenly, they work hard to need sutures as well. If I say to another that experiences internal shifting of sorts that we lose time and are dynamic in character, then suddenly their internal processes will reflect that. If I say to an abuse survivor that our abuse was ritual in nature, and networked, then their abuse suddenly becomes as mine.

And I understand...sometimes others withhold information until they know another. That is fine. But when details do not match, or cannot be adequately given? Lies never add up. I am not so stupid as others think I am. Is there any reasoning behind competative mental illness?

I know who I am.

I know I was given a series of duties. My name is my number and my number is my access, and my access is 719. James before, or Logan now, that does not matter. Those were names chosen. Lights on polished steel, that is what I know. It seems entirely too simple. But then, logic and intellect are my allies.

A death at work, today.

A man apparently died of dehydration. Add this to the death onsite due to a narcotics overdose, and the worker that fell from the low-rise roof a few days ago, I wonder exactly how dangerous construction work is.

In an excerpt of an article taken from The Socialist Worker, a comparison was made between work-related deaths of construction workers, to police officers, citing that most believe police-work is one of the most dangerous occupations in this nation:

"According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS), in 2002, there were a total of 5,524 fatal work injuries in the United States. In the summary of the BLS’s findings for 2002, cops don’t even merit a mention. Construction, factory, forestry, mining, fishing and trucking workers accounted for the majority of fatalities. In 2002, 1,121 construction workers died; 789 agricultural, forestry and fishing workers; 563 manufacturing workers; 121 miners; 910 transportation and public utility workers; 692 wholesale and retail trade workers; and 580 service workers. Coming in second to last behind finance, insurance and real-estate workers (87 fatalities) are the police, with 106 deaths. Of the 106 police deaths, only 38 were from gunshot wounds. About that many people are shot and killed every year by cops in Detroit and New York City alone. The Stolen Lives Project, for example, compiled a list of 32 people killed by New York City and environs police in 1998."

It makes me wonder exactly how many of these jobsite accidents were preventable; how many were foolish mistakes and how many were based on a a false sense of safety.