"Success."

I'm not sure what it says about me that I can't think of what a successful life means to me. For context, I've been asked several times lately if I have any goals, or some metric by which I can measure "success." I've not had an answer beyond the flippant; "Survive 'til 2012 when we're all fucked anyway" was one of the more recent responses.

This is the damnable part of depression. I can know that I've got certain standards which I long to live up to, and there are things I'd like to do with my life - travel, get involved with worthy charities, get involved with politics, and generally leave the world a better place than when I entered it - and yet on the emotional, "gut" level, I don't give a damn. I want everyone else to feel as empty as I do, cliche as that may sound. I feel anger, bordering on rage; I feel the need to hurt myself lest I take it out on others.

Again, though, that's the emotional level, if you will. Intellectually, I know it's wrong to hurt myself; I'm not an idiot. I know it's wrong to hurt others. I don't generally lash out in anger or frustration; for the most part, I'm as healthy and happy as the next guy.

It's weird to have seemingly two minds, each vying for supremacy and influence. I don't know enough about others to know whether this is how everyone feels, if perhaps this is why seemingly normal people can just "snap" and go postal.

So what does this have to do with success? Well, differing goals, really. I know what I want to do with my life, but I'm struggling to make myself care enough to go about *doing* it. I hate feeling like I have to trick myself into being productive instead of stewing in self-loathing.

And good god, "stewing in self-loathing." Who the fuck writes that? Assholes, that's who.