Clinically depressed with a side of stupid

I was originally going to write this post about a conversation I had today with a few friends about the happiest memories of our lives, a specific moment which we wouldn't mind being stuck in for the rest of ever, but that kind of writing just reeks of sappiness and optimism. I'm more of a sarcastic bitch that shoots spitballs at googly-eyed couples in grocery stores and makes illegal U-turns. A lot of people have tried to convince me that I won't reach a more permanent level of happy with all these inborn feelings of irony at the world, and maybe that's true, but I really don't think I can change who I am. Nor do I want to. So screw it.

At the same time, there is a part of me I want to change. I have a tendency to personally sabotage situations that I'm afraid will take a bad turn. It's sort of like shooting myself in the foot, only much worse - it's almost like I want to exacerbate the problem for dramatic effect, and then afterwards chew my nails and sit on my couch thinking how in hell things ended up like this.

In conversations, I drive us into the same rut of having absolutely nothing to say to make it better. No apologies, no secret confessions, no light sarcastic comment - nothing to save the day. The first time this happened, I fully blamed the other person. The second time, because the people were so different, I started wondering if it had something to do with me. The third time put me over the top. And you'd think, what in the world did I have to say and do to close every possible door of reconciliation? Well, it's a fucking talent.

After the waves of adrenaline from the scripted lines and the loud empty words die down, I'm left alone on the couch. Sometimes I'm on the floor, but chances are I'll be inside the apartment. And then all I have left is memories of the fight and all my feelings of resentment within these four walls because my mother's never home and dammit it's lonely. I always say that having regrets means not letting go of the past, but how can I not regret some of the terrible, life-altering things I've done? How can I not hate myself?

To all reading this post who understand what I'm talking about, I'm so sorry. I've said it a bajillion times but it fails to make things better, and I suppose it shouldn't anyway. But I will try my hardest to be accepting and let go of what can't be reversed. The next step is to get rid of this self-destructive talent; a lot of people tell me they wish they had at least some of the excitement of my movie-like life, but guess what, sweetcakes? Real life is not a movie. It's boring and anticlimactic and sometimes safe, but that sure as hell beats having people tell you "Oh my God you should totally write a book about your crazy experiences and I'll be the first to read it". I'm exhausted. I want safe.

When I began writing this, I didn't know how honest I would be with myself. It turned into one of the most personal things I've ever written. I really want to go hide under my blankie hugging Foofie, my huge white stuffed bear from 5th grade (and the only one that made it through the years), and swear that I was intoxicated while writing this, but the post wrote itself. And if it can't help anything I've already messed up, maybe it'll be a small aid in preventing this from ever happening again.