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IN my life I have learned every possible way to go around an obstacle without getting past it at all. I felt like Sisyphus, pushing that boulder up the tall mountain in hell, for it to only turn around and roll back down again.

I have felt like a vampire, a ghost, a ghoul, a monster, and a dead person at times.

I've questioned also why my conscience must be so sensitive that I feel like a monster simply because I get angry a lot and I argue a lot.

I've questioned my chronic disregard of what other people think in favor of what is good or convenient to me at the time.

I've spent years troubled about why my mother never loved me enough to leave me feeling secure and loved. She loves me, but it's never enough. I feel like a vampire.

I've questioned my own worth as a person when potential friend after potential friend has reacted negatively towards me because of something that I couldn't really accept because it seemed so hateful or bigoted or intolerant. Similarly I could never understand why my friends never treated me like a best friend when I loved them so much.

I've questioned my femininity when I could never manage to attract a good boyfriend who would be loyal to me. I could never understand why loyalty was not a given, in a relationship.

I've questioned my rights to expect fair treatment from my loved ones, when I don't share an equal amount of the work. I've accepted any treatment, without having the ability to leave any situation. I was grateful for what I got, and never was beaten.

I named my blog "My Haunted Mind" because I picture myself as a woman sitting in a chair and she has a haunted mansion for a head. The haunted mansion is my mind, all these years haunted by something I could never define yet was barely perceptible all around me and never suspected within me.
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let her rave, indeed

Posted 05-08-15 at 09:54 PM by icarusinflames
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I don't remember reading "Ode to Melancholy" by John Keats in the past, but I must have read it. The ideas seem so familiar to me, and I know how he feels when he gives into the fit of melancholy. Giving in to the feelings and being open to the experience of misery and gloom and darkness. I have been that way all my life. I enjoyed melancholy, yet I was sickened by melancholy.

I am starting to see how my tainted vision could be expressed in writing to my advantage, rather than choking and freezing into old age, helplessly.
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