Being as self-indulgent and sad as I am I'm sitting here watching La Môme - not in the dark, though.
'Tis nice to see things about people who've fucked up their lives worse than I have; as nice as it can be, of course. It's really a sick kind of enjoyment, which only works in the shallowest way possible and only when my attention is elsewhere, but schadenfreude is what we are all about, no? I can be okay as long as I am in the company of the right people but all the bad thoughts come in once I'm alone. At least I admit it.
I'm reading You Can't Go Home Again. It helps. My books are my rock, what little grip I still have on the person I used to enjoy being. True, I'm not doing so badly for myself right now, but I can't stop wallowing. I want to go back to when I didn't hate myself for my thoughts and my actions, and when I may have been silly and stupid but I wasn't so acutely aware of it.
I guess I will take some legally-prescribed medication and go stare at the ceiling for a while. Numbness is really the best I can hope for at this point. Whaaaaaatevs.