Before I had any notion of personality or character the first thing I knew about myself was that I was damaged goods. I wasn't up to snuff and as soon as I was old enough they were going to try to patch me up and make me more acceptable. Some people say "looks don't matter" but they might as well say "You're ugly, but don't worry about it. Old people can see past appearances."
      I became convinced nearly from the start that no boy would want my heart so I gave it a funeral and buried it alive. Ever since I've been sitting by it's grave telling it stories of girls whose hearts were wanted; girls who had problems and sometimes scars but never that inherent ugliness.
     I think, I hope, I am slowly beginning to unearth it again. I'm not sure what I'll find really.

So, as evidenced by my last post, every now and then I have little fits of depression in the middle of the night. I often write down part of what I've been thinking (my mind generally manages to cover a couple of different topics, so I can't ever write down all of it). In spite of the tears and misery, a small part of me almost enjoys it. Possibly this is just because it's a relief to let it all out since the issues are usually of very long standing, and there is always something satisfying about piecing together just the right words to express what you're thinking and feeling.
This morbid pleasure then urges me to share what I've written, and while I wouldn't ever want to share such self-pitying documents with someone in person, I thought I might post them here. It would be rather ironic content for such a hopeful sounding blog, and it is unlikely that anyone would enjoy reading them, but then hardly anyone looks at this blog anyway, so I'm going to post at least one or two more. We'll see how brash I'm feeling after that.