Sometimes I believe I have the right or reason to be angry or upset about a situation. Oftentimes, I reflect and discover that I was in the wrong, that I overreacted, or that I was a lunatic and perceived something nonexistent. This process is very damaging to my sense of self worth. Part of me wants to righteously hang onto the “reasons” I was upset, because in some ways that feels better than the opinion I later form of myself. However, in the end I feel worse, because I start thinking about what a bitch I must be to present unnecessary ugliness unapologetically. I know it can be very difficult to understand or deal with me. I am irrational and prone to fantastical thought. I am moody and overly sensitive, apparently much more so than the average person. These, and other characteristics, categorize me as crazy. I am functionally crazy, though, and it comes and goes. I do not know if it would be better to be completely over either line, but I think borderline is the worst. If I were totally insane, I probably would not even realize it, let alone question whether all the unpleasantness were in my nature or just my fault. If I were totally sane (such a condition exists?), I probably would be able to talk myself out of any rare episode of evil. So far I do not have control over the darkness and negativity that cloud my otherwise sunshiny personality; sometimes I can fake my way through it, but pretending does not take away the hurt inside. I want to believe that for every exceptionally negative aspect of my being, there is an exceptionally wonderful part that is equally noticeable. For example, although I feel deeper pain than most people, I experience greater joy. I wish I could convince myself of other ways my blessings counterbalance my curses, but somehow instead I get a lump in my throat and feel guilty, worthless, or disposable. I like to think of myself as a flower, one that is delicate but surprisingly hardy. I wilt frequently, but I also bloom often. I want to believe that my blossom is so bright and beautiful that I am more than worth the painstaking effort necessary to keep me in the garden. Is it?

Pollyanna Hates the Glad Game

Oh, there's nothing more tragic than the day Pollyanna cannot find anything to be glad about staying in bed. "No, it was a silly game. I hate it. I'll never want to play it again."