A cathartic experience for me. Rambling for you.

Discussion in 'Rants, Musings and Ideas' started by jameslyons, Dec 6, 2008.

  1. jameslyons

    jameslyons Well-Known Member

    I'm sick and tired of being victimized by depression. All those god damn phantoms that come out of your head and drive the hatred and guilt and disgust deep into your body until it's popping out of your mouth and your eyes are ugly and bulging.

    I hate the fact that I've adopted depressive behaviorisms that I use even when I'm not depressed. I hate the fact that I feel like a fraud every day of my life. I'm such an actor. And because of it I can't have any real friends. But whenever I'm candid people feel weird. Who wants to hang out with the guy who talks about cutting his wrists or suicide.

    I'm manipulative, ugly, stupid, and selfish. I think I smell. My teeth are particularly ugly. I only feel confident about my body when I look at it naked in the mirror. I can't look people in the eye.

    I've been celibate since I started to hate myself for who I was becoming. An alcoholic, a Bukowski bum wannabe, a scum sucker, a desperate loser. I can't believe the women I used to go out with. I was looking for the "truth" about the world. But nobody told me that when you look for the gritty truth of the world it can stick on you like a coat of oil or day old vomit.

    Twice I almost drowned when I was little. First the ocean, next a raging river. I survived. I was swept head of heels into the sea and nobody could find me. They were all dipping their hands into the salty water that twirls in little whirlpools as ocean water does. I was discovered by somebody--they grabbed my ankle like Achilles' mother Thetis. The second time I was separated from my parents. They spent 45 minutes looking for me next to one of those slew ways or whatever you call a concrete channel for water in a municipal areas. A cop brought me to my mother. Said he found me by the river.

    I thought I escaped the water, but I didn't. I thought I escaped the leg braces a la Forest Gump that I had to wear as a little boy. But I didn't. I feel handicapped and ugly when I talk with people. Depression makes me feel like I'm drowning. I'm so tired of it.

    I wish I had a wife and she had died . That way people wouldn't look at me oddly whenever I talk about how depressed I am. I would have an excuse. And maybe then I could be the good type of guy-- a Tom Hanks type of guy. I also sometimes fantasize about having a child. That way I imagine I could be depressed, but still function in the world. I'd just breath in and out, taking care of my child. Maybe it would be sick like me.

    And I couldn't be too depressed because I would have so much energy devoted on something else. These are my thoughts when I don't think about suicide but think about depression. I feel so alone and stupid and pointless. Ineffectual and impotent. I have an articulated concept of a good relationship; I want that relationship but am afraid I'm not good enough for it. I was sexually molested as a young man. I can only be romantic in my head, I've ruined any chance of real happiness. That's why I must find some way to struggle onwards under a shlop of glum. Or kill myself.

    But I don't want to kill myself now. Maybe I will tomorrow, but not now. Whenever I write I feel like a French woman who is writing on her computer--she's forty, gaining slight wrinkles, dirty blond hair, and has a longish face that some French women have. I imagine in my head the voice of the woman speaking to herself as she writes. She speaks French, but it's really gibberish because my French is horrible.

    That's another thing. I've failed every language course I've ever taken: Spanish, French, German, Japanese, Cantonese, Korean, and Italian and Russian and Arabic. I wish I was smarter. I wish I knew what to do in life. I wish I had something to dedicate my life to.

    I feel like a lesbian French writer in her forties narrating aloud what she writes in French that isn't French. I wish I could be that woman. I bet she has a great life, or better yet some answer to how the world works. Maybe I should try to date a bisexual French female writer in her forties.

    I imagine it would be nice to sleep with a French woman who would be kind enough to hold you to her breasts and whisper in French even though you don't understand what she says. It would be nice if somebody would love me and spend time to intimately love me. Sometimes I feel like I'm nobody if I don't have a partner. But I haven't had a partner since I chose to find a good relationship instead of a bad one. I'm lonely and wish I was older. I find so much peace and happiness in imagining I'm that woman.

    I hope my someday wife is like that. I want human contact so badly and I can only find it in writing. Does that mean I know what I want or am I doomed to find nothing in the real world but longing. This is my fear. I wish I had a vagina, I wish I had breasts that are starting to sag. I wish I was happy or was happy but now am sad. I wish I had a back story. I wish I knew what my lover wanted, I wish I knew why she went away with Henri-Pierre. I want to have a child before menopause, I wish I wasn't afraid of artificial insemination. I wish I wasn't afraid of the men who smoked and laughed and worked in town. I was always self-conscious until I met Marie. I wish I wasn't a woman. I wish I was young and had a penis. I wish I could make love to a woman with a penis. I wish I wasn't here. I wish I could be free of my insecurities and my ties, but I'm afraid of leaving my office. I'm afraid of wanting too much and having it denied to me. I'm afraid of dying alone and never knowing life. I'm afraid of the door, but the white plaster of the walls make me sick.

    I wish I was free and young and old and happy.

    Je desire etre tranquil.

    I wish.
    Last edited by a moderator: Dec 6, 2008
  2. plates

    plates Well-Known Member

    You'll continute to live in your own little movie, book, until you start being candid, spontaneous, and start talking about cutting your wrists and the ugly 'depression' that you hate and what it means, and stop dressing it up with the things you've consumed. Until you start looking at vomit, and grit and oil and the women you've gone out with and your relationships with people who aren't chic French lesbian writers in your head.

    I hope that helped, though, letting that all out.
    Last edited by a moderator: Dec 6, 2008
  3. bleach

    bleach Well-Known Member

    Who knows if there is anything more real? Maybe so-called happiness and fulfillment is simply tightening the links in your series of distractions, squeezing introspective time into the smallest area possible...