It feels less important if you type it... but... if I use a physical journal... I have way too much to write...
I say that I'm creative, but that's a half-truth.The other, honest half... is that it's a form of escape.
The human experience is, at times, overwhelming. I do not have a problem controlling my emotions. Rather, fatigue from dealing with them.
It's not like I have the 'father complex' where I'm scared to acknowledge, show, or talk about them.
I would say it's similar to introversion. Social interaction is tiring, and at the end of a long day, even with the best of friends and family in the perfect circumstances... I am tired. Exhausted. Drained. I need to do other things, period. It's rest. It's escape.
Similarly, since I first started maturing, I have had problems with depression, a negative thought process, anger, and general frustration. But as I often say, most of that is in the past, and I have moved forward a great deal.
I would go so far as to say that I am no longer depressed. Rather, the opposite. The pure extent to which I feel is a pain to compartmentalize. Most of the time I solve this problem by 'not caring.' This gives others the impression that I 'don't care.'
The truth is, I do care. I care too much.
Most of this is repressed or left unsaid. I don't exactly have people to discuss anything with.
As long as I can remember, I have dealt with my own emotions alone. I know exactly how I feel and think at any given moment. I don't act without knowing it. I never do something and ask 'Why did I do that?' Because I know. It's not difficult.
I am only disorganized when it comes to my physical possessions. Mentally, everything is packed away, labeled, in it's correct place, where it will not rust or get eaten by moths, fall over, or get stolen. I have very few issues that lack closure.
Think about a garage full of stuff. Not a disorganized, dirty garage... it's neat and clean, everything is stacked nicely. But it's full. Right up to the door, it's full.
Writing about it all is opening a flood gate. Shaking the bottle and popping the cork.
I can easily write until my hand twists itself into a cramped knot.
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It's too much to write. I would much rather talk about it. But I talk too much. I can talk until your ears fall off.
People always ask me why I'm so quiet in person.
Well, no one wants to listen to me give speeches, do they? It's annoying.
So I listen instead.
And people keep thinking that I must not care.