In Which I Emo Not

I wonder: How can I be considered "kind" in any way, when I'm so filled with hatred? There are so many aspects of my existance that I love. There are perhaps twice as many aspects of my existance that I hate and can never seem to get off my mind. I've been told time and time again that I am not bipolar, and yet I experience mood swings that sometimes surprise even me. They threaten every aspect of my existance and cause me to turn fully upon myself in rage. And I...I don't think that there's any way that I can ever really put an end to it. I'm beginning to think that my moods might very well put an end to me one of these days. I think it's more than possible that the process of this has already begun to unfold, and I am so very afraid. I can't sleep, though last night I did, amazingly. I can barely eat, and whenever I do eat, I feel an overwhelming depression that I can't describe. It makes me want to be sick after each meal, and on occassion, I flirt with the prospect of actually making myself vomit, even though I know that I could never do such a thing to myself, for obvious reasons. I've never been one to inflict physical punishment upon myself; back in the day, I used to play around with putting little red nicks in my ankles and such with my pocket knife, but I never got any real relief out of it, like some people do. I guess you could probably say that wreaking emotional havoc on my own mind and turning my own mind against itself was more my style. And how utterly horrible that must sound! As you can see, I don't need to be made to lie down and waste every single penny I earn on a fucking psychiatrist. An exorcism performed on me might lend far better results.

I have a lot on my mind right now, if me saying "a lot" can even approach the true sum. At the moment I'm mostly thinking about two people who are most dear to me: Janne and his sister-in-law. I love them both so much! Only God knows how much I love them, and yet I'm no good for them. I would honestly like to spend the rest of my life living with Janne, but I feel as though that would be almost selfish of me, for try as I might, I cannot satisfy him enough to satisfy me. (Does that also sound kind of selfish, in a way?) I love that man, and I tell him so quite often. And all he says in return, usually, as if in awe, is, "You're so kind. So kind." But what he never seems to understand is that I am not trying to be kind. My love for him is not something that he's had to earn, during the year and some months in which I've been properly acquainted with him; nor is my love some kind of holy blessing that I bestow for his goodwill, though, once again, God knows that I pray daily for his goodwill. I simply love Janne because I love Janne. My love is not based on his looks, or on his career, or even on his astonishing mental capacity as far as things like religion and art and writing go. But Janne doesn't know this. That's where his dreams and imagination come to an end, because he doesn't love himself as much as I love him. (Indeed, I believe that we both might be, at least in our own minds, unworthy of one another. But as I think of Janne right now, I find that I absolutely couldn't care less.) And then there's Janne's wonderful sister-in-law, whom I've known for the last five-going-on-six years, and whom I look up to and respect immensely for reasons of my own. I realized in a computer message she wrote me today, only a few hours ago, that I have wronged her without ever meaning to do so, in a most complicated and rare way (thought maybe not so very rare, as far as I'm concerned). God has blessed this young woman and I with the unique ability to truly communicate, meaning very precisely that she and I have always been able to share our problems and secrets without embarrassment so that we find ourselves able to talk about almost anything to one another...And today perhaps one of the most inconcievable things happened between us, though when I put the matter into words, the new burden this hands me becomes seriously downplayed. The truth of the matter is, to put it rather bluntly, that I've allowed myself to seem like a total idiot in front of her, due to an unfortunate combination of relatively common words, which I flatly decline to type again here. Oh, my dear, dear friend...What a fool she must think me, now. I honestly have no idea of what I could ever do or say, at this point, to save face. I am so fucking stupid! It is exactly 1:37 in the morning where I am right now, and I can't sleep. I'd love to sleep, but I don't know if I really even deserve to sleep. However, on the other hand, I also have quite a bad headache from staring into the wall of this enormous over-bright computer monitor, and I'm more than sure that I deserve it.

I cannot handle this. Especially not right now, when I have so many other awful things to worry about. It's currently the ninth day of July, and I have a train ticket to get hold of, sometime soon after this upcoming Thursday, and another friend of mind to contact even before that happens, so that we can figure out the best possible time for me to go through the process of acquiring the train ticket in order to come and visit her for only two or three days at the most. I shouldn't even mention the fact that the train ticket I purchase will be very expensive, most likely something of about forty euros, because I don't have the student card necessary for getting the great discount. But aside from that, I also can't stop worrying about what's going on with my dad who lives over in America, and my dog. We have five dogs, and only a few weeks ago, one of them was shot by one of our neurotic asshole neighbors, who claimed that Thunder was growling at his little girl when he was out walking with her to the mailbox. And it doesn't surprise me whatsoever that this particular neighbor of ours made several attempts to lie about shooting the poor dog in the first place. (His slack-faced teenage son shot another one of our dogs about two years ago, "just to see what would happen", and Steve tried to lie about that happening as well.) The dogs survived, thank goodness, though at great medical expense, but now my dad seems to be terrifyingly intent on getting rid of the youngest of our dogs, which is mine, simply because she likes to bark. If Dad tries to hurt Golda, or if he tries to get rid of her, right out from under me...I don't know what I'll do to him. There's really nothing I can do, or at least nothing I can think of. I think that his threatening to get rid of Golda might be Dad's childish way of getting revenge on me for leaving him again this summer to go to Finland, rather than have to stay home, work my ass off, make his meals and clean his house and clean up after him when he gets shitfaced with his friends every night. As far as I'm concerned, Dad can do all that for himself, and go to hell afterwards. But he'd better not attempt to get rid of Golda. My dogs are just about the only good thing I've got waiting for me when I have to go back to America at the beginning of August, and all five of them had better be at the house, where they're supposed to be. Dad mentioned something about giving Golda to Mom, but I learned that it was safer to distrust and disregard Mom when it comes to taking care of anything a very long time ago, when my youngest brother was born.