Wallowing ruminating in Stuff about stuff

Laying here worthless and alone while she sleeps six inches away and insurmountably distant. Trying to analyze and make sense of thirty years of habits and traits having no real idea what kind of connections I’m supposed to be making. Frustration boiling from my eyes as despicably pathetic tears, self-loathing and self-pity mingling like espresso poured into a glass of milk. The bitter strong taste of self-hatred lacing the smooth comfort of feeling sorry for myself, like a warm hug from a velvet cactus.
My brain tears itself in two and I’m standing in the void left between, clawing for purchase on one side or the other, depending on how I’m breathing, on which direction I’m facing. No longer trying to reconcile the torn halves, just silently screaming to be made whole again. I’m the last man fighting, when the battle has clearly been lost. Desperately flinging half-truths and transparent lies at the ever nearing, oncoming awful reality, any actual ammunition long since expended. The only casualties are the innocent bystanders and the relentlessly scrambling rescue workers, taking direct fire and explosives from the one twisted soul who has the power to finish this, who they’re still trying to dig free of the rubble, the wasted remains of his once impenetrable stronghold of self-deception and shame. They’re still clinging to hope that he can pull himself free of the iron weights he willingly helped his father lock him into.
He shouts at them to move on, to let him die, that he’s not worth saving, that he’d rather stay and rot from the inside out because rebuilding his mind is too much, too hard, too overwhelming a task to be expected of him. Him, of all people, who has proven his worthlessness so many times that he only ever feels hope on accident, and out of fear begins resenting it almost immediately. He’s terrified things can’t get better, so he’s putting in just enough effort to prove that he can’t change.
The selfish, stupid, stubborn fool.