Well, it appears that I am keeping…I might as well admit it…a diary. Or is it a journal? I've never bothered to learn the difference. Looking back at my life, you would have though that I'd have done this before, especially when I was a teenager. I mean, isn't every angst-filled teenager supposed to keep a journal? Oh, God, I can just imagine how it would have looked: "Dear Diary: They all hate me. They all laugh. I'm ugly and worthless. I want to die, die, die die die…" And repeat endlessly. I was not the deepest of youth. Rather than interpret my surroundings, I preferred to wallow in self-pity and simply deal with base emotions…sort of like an animal, really, though I suppose that's a bit harsh.
I suppose that there are two reasons I'm keeping a journal now—one is that I'm terribly bored much of the time, and the other is that I can sense that one of my melancholic periods is coming on and I'd like to deal with it better than I did last time. I usually have a few of these periods during the school year—one always falls at Christmastime, I detest that holiday—and one brutal stretch of pseudo-despair never fails to take up my entire summer. The last one I had was in February and lasted about a week, mercifully short—I got horribly drunk every night and made other rash decisions. When the week was over, I looked back in disgust as I always do and decided that I wouldn't let myself behave like that again. So, I fished out a blank book and decided to get a head start lest I get caught up in my depression and forget about the journal entirely. I spent some time writing that entry…and, well, I enjoyed it. And I enjoy this. I guess I'm just suited for it.
I'm really very embarrassed about these melancholic periods of mine. I've never known of anyone else having a similar problem—well, nobody as intelligent and well educated as I am. I think it may be hereditary—I recall my mother retreating to her room for pieces of time—however, she had my father to contend with, and mine generally come without provocation. My father was perpetually angry. I remember very few times when he would smile and be kind to his wife and son. I was always under the impression that I was an unwanted child, an accident if you will, and I'm still convinced that that was related to his anger.
At any rate, I got four hours of sleep last night, give or take an hour. That's one of the signs that the melancholy is approaching— acute insomnia. My troubles with insomnia began when I joined up with the Death Eaters. Before that, I couldn't get enough sleep—I would have stayed in bed all day if I could have. Being a Death Eater made me an insomniac, and when I did sleep I was plagued with nightmares. I'm sure it had something to do with my long-buried conscience. Well, I'm going to quit rambling now and attempt to get some sleep.