I’m not allowed to bitch about the things in my life I want to bitch about. I’m not allowed to talk or type about this or that or the other thing going on in my life because for some reason I’ve begun associating with people who think privacy exists and have asked me to play along. It’s stupid.
And frankly, I’ve begun to break.
I’ve begun to let things slip here and there. Things that have no business being confidential at this point. Some of which I didn’t think had any business being confidential at the time. I don’t get it. it’s like a combination of dishonesty and shame, this secrecy business. I don’t do things I’m ashamed of, I don’t like being dishonest, I don’t like other people being dishonest to me, and my general opinion is that if people are ashamed of the things they’re doing that they shouldn’t be doing them.
So what’s with all these secrets?
Why do people live lives they’re ashamed of?
Why do people lie to each other?
I can understand a certain amount of discretion, a certain amount of silence around people with known intolerances, because you can’t change other people, but leading a life you yourself cannot tolerate (or tolerate others knowing you’re living it, which seems equivalent to me) — why do people do that?
Ugh. Another post about not posting about my life. I could tell you I’m less depressed now than before, but I can’t tell you about my life, my job, my friends, my love life, what’s important to me or what’s going on and been going on to push my moods around the spectrum. I am reduced to meaning less than this, to meaninglessness.
Less than this, but about to break.
