100th Post

No one is forcing you to read my words. This is my space to write. Yes, it is individualistic. But almost all blogs are. Click 'Next blog' and you will see what I mean. No, it is unlikely that I'll stop blogging. Yes, it will probably ruin my chances at any academic career. But there is nothing ahead of me anyway. What career? I can see no future for me. I can't imagine it, I can only write of the past. Yes, I will be abandoned yet again. Over and over the same story repeating itself. Do you understand why I blog? No, I'm not sure why either. My former psychologist suggested it. They said it might help me if I saw my words on paper. Yes, they left me too. Yes, I don't think anyone can 'help'. No, that is not the only reason I blog. It is also dumping ground for everything that is on my mind. No, I'm not sure it is factual either. Yes, it is more stories, narratives, ideas. No, they don't always make sense. Why am I writing like you are talking with me? Because you are there perhaps. No, it doesn't matter if you are not there either. 100 posts. 100 mood pieces. 100 stories of the moment about the past. 100 entries of trapped words. Yes, I'm surprised I made it this far with blogging. Yes, you can always leave. Everyone does. But I can't. Yes, of course you can leave now. Do it. Click 'Next blog'. Read of another person's narcissism if that is what you want to call it. Yes, social death is messy. But I was already killed off by the gatekeepers. Dumped, dropped, discarded, out of the community, socially dead. That is the problem when you try to revive those of us who have suffered social death. You reanimate wounded beings. Those with nothing left and nothing left to lose as we were already dead to you. We patch ourselves together and pretend we are 'real people'. But it is always pretending. Yes, it is like playing 'dress up' as an academic. Never to be 'real people', never to be taken seriously. Bastard children to be thrown away, again and again. My apologies to Joyce.