Sad babbling in The Road Ahead
- Dec. 12, 2018, 3:13 a.m.
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- Public
There should be a word for the deceptively quiet and small feeling you get in the back of your mind when you resign yourself to buying that one way ticket to the long farewell.
I don’t belong anywhere. I’m not fit for the world I find myself in. All I want to do is love and be loved, and I feel like I’ve failed at that. I’ve never been enough.
All the things I loved and that clamorred for my attention have fallen to the wayside. The bastions of escapism and connection were lost and things have gone quiet. Quietly floundering for air with all energy to survival and making it through the day.
I have gaming streams on YouTube and Twitch playing nearly 24 hours a day, just to have some sort of human connection. I don’t know how to ask for help but I’m worried it’s getting out of my control. My quiet desperation is bleeding into all aspects of my life and you know what feeling I can’t shake?
Guilt. I feel so fucking guilty for being such a time and money sink to those around me. All the emotional and other forms of investment, and the selfish prick I am can’t do anything but fantasize about ending my life, ultimately betraying those who cared about me in the first place.
I know I’m not technically alone. But I don’t know who I can talk to when it gets like this. It’s really, really hard to talk about depression and especially difficult to talk about feeling suicidal with people who don’t understand it. It’s something I’ve struggled with every day for as long as I can remember.
I’m casually researching the most painless methods of self dispatch, cautiously optimistic it’ll merely end up another nugget of information I hope I’ll never need.
I need to cry from the bottoms of my feet
I need to be held as the littlest of spoons
I need to make my own version of peace
I need goals and something to work for
I need friends and to feel connected
What I expect though…is nothing. I expect to hold my feelings under the surface until the next time I’m on the freeway, ugly crying at 70 mph. I expect to take comfort in being the big spoon for my teddy bear, my skin and mind crying out for human touch. I expect to continue to be swallowed up by my waves of depression, sunk into the maelstrom. I expect to continue to slam my head against the wall or end up trading my body for a place to live. I expect that feeling of being cast off and unwanted to flourish and echo off the empty corridors of my heart.
I’m not hopeful. Except I suppose, for the tiny sliver that has kept me going this far, but I’m beginning to feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome.
Deleted user ⋅ December 15, 2018
We really are a lot alike in virtually all of this. But I don't really want to be touched, and I don't actually cry ever. Only a tear for my own sentimentality.
I've never cried harder, in my entire life, than when I did something critically beneficial for someone who desperately needed help, or for those who have been discarded by their family for being themselves, whatever the reason.
I have been thrown away too many times, from too young an age. Was never really treated whole, and it took me a lifetime of searching, in vain obviously, for something that I had never even lost. Either never knew, or had forgotten; but absent, all the same.
I had just had another female host take my whole check, break up with me, issue my eviction notice. I had just rescued my friend from suicide, told him what to say to make sure they didn't put him in the psych ward, moved him into our house, because he was also getting kicked out of his dig for being a blubbering drunk. How fucking shallow, right? I mean, so long as you aren't hurting anyone, what the fuck does it matter?
Anyhow, went to stay with my sister, again, found this book in her bathroom drawer. Tao Te Ching.
I read it in one sitting, which took a highly absorbant hour and a halfish. Finally realized the joke had been on me. Such a fool. Infantile pleb.
It didn't change my life, Broseph. I did. But it did help me make sense of the jumbled mess my life had always been. Hell, even still is.
Enlightenment was like a season. A long season. Struck in a flash, faded for a year and a half, until only my lessons remained.
I no longer seek out the needy. I hide away in seclusion, with no need to act happy. But I am also not miserable anymore, or lonely.
I keep myself busy though, even if I'm just lying down, watching a movie. There is always stimulation. Haven't meditated for years now, because these motherfuckers--I mean, my family that I love--are too loud.
I am content.
But there has always been that underlying sensation, even when I finally have all of the security that I have always been lacking. Something just doesn't feel right, I'm exhausted. I just want to fall asleep and never wake up dead. :)
It's like a parrot, or a splashy goldfish. Or like a cat who not-so-secretly hates you. Existing is like being an exposed nerve, like being a geiger counter in a box that is sure to be exposed to radioactive material, like trying to read a book in a pitch black room with a worn out light switch--flip it all you want; the hold slips, light dies, darkness wins. Worse than pushing a button for food pellets, infinitely more tedious.
I prefer to just experience life these days, let my story write itself. Like I'm rumpelstiltskin, AND goldilocks, or however the fuck, weaving porridge into gold nuggets.
Easy street is paved cheese graters, and I'm sure I must appear to be sliding down the escalator, running through the grinder, lumpier than a sack of potatoes getting ripped through the chipper.
Hot, cold.... Everything tastes like shit to me!