![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Aug. 10th, 2014 06:06 pmDon't really feel much better today, honestly. I made a campfire last night and sat out by it all on my lonesome - the moon was full for the first time I ever remember on my birthday. Played some guitar and stayed as philosophical in mind as possible.
My scalp is in the scaly phase now - feels somewhat like scabs. The inflammation went down a lot (around Thursday I swear a lump on the back of my head was bigger than it has ever been.) Not sure if the bump drained yet or not - no real indication on my pillow cases, anyway. Having long hair kinda changes that, though - back when I shaved my head, there'd be blood and pus on the case in little round circles. I know, whoever is reading this, probably doesn't want to hear this...but hey, this is a journal after all. When I die, it's probably going to be one of the only things left of my presence. I know I certainly don't have the network, friends or family to keep me metaphorically alive. At least someone will see the kind of fucked up shit I've had to deal with. Maybe the people that think I'm totally fucked up, "shut-in", "anti-social" will figure out that, you know, maybe I just went through some serious shit for years. Saying it that way, makes me a little fucking angry at my last ex. Of course I'm fucking depressed. The doctor's can't figure it out and I'm exhausted/weak/sick for weeks on end every couple months to a year. Why the fuck couldn't you just stand by me? Why do I ALWAYS have to be fucking PERFECT? Nobody else does though, that's right.
My only hope is that I will in this life figure out some truths, help some others to find it, and leave something behind for future generations. Everything else feels like it's falling apart. Ugh.
What a shitty birthday.
My scalp is in the scaly phase now - feels somewhat like scabs. The inflammation went down a lot (around Thursday I swear a lump on the back of my head was bigger than it has ever been.) Not sure if the bump drained yet or not - no real indication on my pillow cases, anyway. Having long hair kinda changes that, though - back when I shaved my head, there'd be blood and pus on the case in little round circles. I know, whoever is reading this, probably doesn't want to hear this...but hey, this is a journal after all. When I die, it's probably going to be one of the only things left of my presence. I know I certainly don't have the network, friends or family to keep me metaphorically alive. At least someone will see the kind of fucked up shit I've had to deal with. Maybe the people that think I'm totally fucked up, "shut-in", "anti-social" will figure out that, you know, maybe I just went through some serious shit for years. Saying it that way, makes me a little fucking angry at my last ex. Of course I'm fucking depressed. The doctor's can't figure it out and I'm exhausted/weak/sick for weeks on end every couple months to a year. Why the fuck couldn't you just stand by me? Why do I ALWAYS have to be fucking PERFECT? Nobody else does though, that's right.
My only hope is that I will in this life figure out some truths, help some others to find it, and leave something behind for future generations. Everything else feels like it's falling apart. Ugh.
What a shitty birthday.
