masochism of the mind, emotional masochism, psychological self-harm. it all works.
no, there's nothing really wrong with me but at the same time there is. i can admit there's a problem with dwelling on emotionally damaging things, but what if they're not intrinsically damaging? what if only the twisted context of your life makes them that way?
what should be the happiest moments, the fondest memories, spoiled by the fact that there will never be any more. like seeing the sun, basking in it for a day and then being forced to live life in darkness. the memory of the sun becomes bitter until it's poison in your veins.
at the same time as you take your only solace in the memories, you wish they had never taken place. because feeling the caustic burn of the bane is better than feeling the nothingness of your void without it.
it's not for some sick joy behind the pain but because letting go is too hard. and there's no guarantee it will even make us happy if we do.
all we hav left to us are the mementos of lives we half-remember living and the memory that life was once better.
it doesn't ever really make sense to dwell on them but that doesn't stop us.
