Sad Addiction

If you pinpoint something more abstract as an addiction, it can be beneficial in the understanding of it. I was addicted to my sadness, obsessed with my unhappiness. I saw it in a whole new light tonight, and it was revealing, to think of everything deriving in some way from that addiction. Being an addict is in my blood, hard-wired into my brain, like the hundred percent chance of me knowing no moderation. All things surrounding me accommodate to the pleasure I receive from feeling poorly about myself. This isn't just self-depreciating lifestyle so it looks a certain way, or based in any way on any other slightly surface grounds. I believe this to be very deep rooted, as well as possibly the hardest thing I will ever have to break. I seek displeasure out, wring melancholy from every moment, every single person. All the situations I involve myself in are fundamentally to make me feel badly about them, and I worry, also rudimentarily goal-orientated to make the other person feel the same. It's disgusting, but I think that I have convinced myself it is in their best interest, to break them and their self worth, if feeling like trash is truly the best sensation. I surround myself with sorrow manifesting things, small tales of woe and despair. Happiness is too clean, too simple, I won't get bored, I just won't get anything. All of my most meaningful relationships, I conceived coincidentally caused me the most heart ache. I connected on the level of feeling sad, I cannot even remember a time where this notion would not apply. I worry, because I would inevitably have I retrain myself what is positive, what is right, crying would not be the ideal outcome, sorrow would no longer be allowed to comfort and console me. I just got so accustomed to failure, when I would give up on something good, I cherished that sick awful feeling of self loathing, because I knew it so well, it knew me best. Joy and love felt wonderful, but could not last, my pitiful sadness, on the other hand, I knew was always waiting. As if it were sitting on the sidelines, watching, knowing I would return, and casting its shadow over those few flawlessly good moments, with the mutual knowledge that we would soon meet again. Something is changed now, though, I don't know which came first really, wanting the other person to feel sincere happiness and positivity, or wanting something genuine for my own future (or present). But I thought that being down on your luck, a raw wound, it could only get me so far. I've gained so little in all of my time of grieving over my own life, my own self. It's concerning though, it really is, being so certain that deserving better will just be another fleeting idea, ending in defeat, a failed attempt. Not succeeding is not the worst part, but the solace in the emotions subsequent. Because I knew how it would go, I knew that I did not in fact deserve better. I will sulk the rest of my life, over the accumulated misfortunes, created in the very first place by the need to sulk over them.

Most of me simply feels lately that if I could cease to over-think all things they would actually have a chance at maybe possibly working out.