You know you're having a rough time when you start writing in the second person

It's a whole distance/projection thing, you think, but you never took a linguistics class so you're actually just pulling that theory out of your ass. It's been a rough week. And month. And semester. And year. And you're ready for it to be over, time for a fresh start. You know that feeling?
You're worn out. Because you've had enough shitty experiences in your college career to discover that when they talk about heartache, they aren't being simply poetical, but in fact quite literal. In your less melodramatic moments you puzzle over the idiosyncracies of your native language, and the fact that an emotion that you ostensibly feel in your brain should manifest itself physically around your breastbone area. It really does hurt there.
It hurts, in fact, like hell, especially when someone you used to care about has gone, and it dawns on you that everything they told you was bullshit. You feel incredibly stupid for a) falling for it and b) taking so long to realize it. Said person was a good friend, or so you felt, and you had something, so vague it wasn't even classifiable, but it was something, briefly, over the summer, and it was nice, while it lasted. She was, at any rate, your first kiss. Which, when you're 21, is a big deal. And having spent the previous four years in an increasing state of numb depression, the kind where you don't feel anything at all, where you can't find any reasons to literally get out of bed in the morning, where you find yourself idly wondering if second story windows are high enough to do the trick, after years of feeling like that, you were amazed at the capacity for happiness you had. It was, not very serious, but very nice indeed.
But it didn't work out. It came as a surprise, and hurt a bit, naturally, but you understood her reasons. You tried to salvage your pride, having made a bit of a fool of yourself. But it was okay. You got over it, and stayed friends, and when she moved away you didn't think much about it. You couldn't help wondering what exactly you did wrong, but you didn't dwell on it.
And then several months later she finds someone new. A guy. At least you think she's seeing him, you're not entirely sure, at least it certainly sounds that way, and at any rate you're shocked at your own reaction. You didn't expect it to hurt this much. You're confused about why you're in so much pain, because it's not as if you still want to be with her romantically, you don't even begrudge her the new relationship with said guy, you genuinely hope she's happy, but you still feel like you've been punched. The way she seems to feel about him; that's how you felt about her. You come to realize that if, indeed, she is in a romantic relationship with this guy, then it means that everything she told you over the summer was bullshit. It wasn't shyness and emotional stress and bad timing; it was you. This lovely person came into your life and said, oh wait, on second thought, nevermind. You feel like she led you on; you're pretty sure she didn't mean to, but she did just the same.
Which, after all the incredible stress of the current semester and past four years, is just the straw that breaks the camel's back. It triggers all your internalized homophobia, and you're staggered by the depth and intensity of your own self-hatred. You have wonderful friends, there aren't actually enough superlatives to properly describe them, friends who sympathise and comfort and do their best to support you. You put your blog on hiatus. You decide not to write to her. You try to avoid reading her blog, and fail. You revert to your old defense mechanisms, avoiding and ignoring your problems, mainly because you're a coward. You're not angry, just hurt and tired of dealing with shit. You don't want to be in school anymore but you don't want to go home to your family that loves you on conditional terms.

You don't know how to talk to her about this. You're not sure if you should. Since you're not sure when you'll ever see her again, you'd like to keep in touch, but you also want to be honest. The one thing you don't want is to keep feeling like every time you talk with her, she's just being nice to someone she used to know.

You hate yourself for being a melodramatic dyke. And for being a dyke. And for being yourself.

You post cryptic quotations from Plath. Finally you post on your blog (which used to be about books, and has disappointingly devolved into general bitchiness and whining) in order to get it over and done with, because the strategy of not-dealing-with-it hasn't worked so well, and you have finals coming up. You're tired. You're ashamed of handling personal matters in such a round-about and public way, but this is the best you can do at the moment.

You hope she'll respond. You hope you haven't made a horrible mistake, that you haven't fucked up once again and made an ass of yourself. You've made a bad habit of that lately. You are, more than anything else, scared, of everything.

You follow up said self-indulgent and soap operatic post with a non-sequitur, noting that you are now linking to one of your afore-mentioned wonderful friends' livejournal (see right).