I certainly do not intend to come off sounding like this is yet another epistle of how sorry I feel for myself. This could not be further from the truth. Nor am I in the shackles of depression, for I am not experiencing that abyss of personal hopelessness and desperation indicative of my lows.

On the contrary, I have not felt more weightless in quite a long time, for what I last wrote was, for want of a better descriptive, an epiphany.

The truth of the matter is, I am a pessemist. I am jaded. I am cynical. While I may not project this every minute of every hour of every day, I certainly feel it. I simply fail to see and feel joy in almost anything. I am all too quick to point out what is wrong in any given situation, with any given person.

I am becoming my mother.

There, I said it.

I write to acknowledge it. I write to own it. I write in the hopes of one day exorcising it.

That last part...that won't be easy. One does not possess that which does not serve a purpose, and up to now, my misanthropic self has served me well. Too well, for it took me over almost completely. The consumation, the assimilation, was so subtle, I almost missed it, like that mythical second vampire bite.

I can still go out into the sunlight, though, for I know I have managed to bring joy to others.

Mother will never get that third bite.

Be Well