U
Someone promise me it's all gonna be okay. How selfish and naive is that? No one can promise anything. My chest hurts. I can't breath. I just cut myself. At work. Whata freak. I've decided to stop eating for awhil;e. My body makes me sick. And to keep myself from being a pig, small cuts every time I break my fast. I doubt I even have the willpower for that. And I'm going out tonight to buy myself some rope. Might not use it. Might just like to have it there. Like a piece of really twisted safety. Please someone tell me that it's all gonna be okay if I just hang on. Even if I don't believe, it's nice to hear someone say it.
I want to be vibrant and happy and beautiful again. It's impossible. I want this to be over.
I post here because there is nowhere else to tell. I can't stand to see one more person run from me. But even here, I feel the same sort of isolation. It's no one's fault. I just seem to have lost the ability to relate properly to life. I am posting as a guest for the comfort of anonymity and because I am on a borrowed computer and, my memory being the wreck it is, will probably fail to remember to sign out. Cowardly I suppose. But I suppose it doesn't really matter.
I've told a handful of people who I care about about the issues I've been having. Some of them took it in stride, or appeared to, mainly they seem to have, out of confusion and fear, decided to shove it away in their mind and pretend it never happened. I wish I could do that. The two people about whom I cared most and whose regard I had the most respect for and who I had the most hope for, as they both, in their times, have dealt with similar issues of mental illness, shutdown, flipped the shit out, and ran as far and as fast as they could. One of them told me to track her down when I was "better." I understood. Understood the reaction. I can only imagine how intense it was to see me self-destructing. I understood the need to run. I've had the same urge. But I stood by them both through pain and insanity. I listened, though I had no implicit obligation to do so. I offered what comfort I could. The mad must tend the mad for no one else shall do so. And it's just the right thing to do. You do what you can, where you can. I believe it is morally, ethically, honorably, I'm not quite sure the word I'm searching for, wrong not to offer aid where it is needed when you can. It costs so little to sit and listen compared to what is lost when, but for the price of an ear, a life could be saved, or something smaller saved or soother, a day, a piece of a person. i have paid the price for being too honest, too blunt. For trying to hard. For caring to much. I suppose that is what it is to live and to be human. And this ridiculous self-pity is part of that same humanity and depression. But I think there is something in me that may be too fragile and too...something...to deal with the daily disillusionments of life. I cannot ask why people do the things they do, or choose the way they do, or feel as they do. I doubt anyone here has anymore concrete or helpful of an answer than I do. It just is. But that same, uncontrollable naive part of me that brings me here in pain, to sit with my fingers pounding uselessly at a keyboard, and spouting depressive kvetching and philosophy is that same part of me that also prompts me to sit here and type it one more time, though I know no one can do it and answer with any sincerity or foreknowledge, but someone tell me, just so I can pretend for a minute, that everything will be alright.
I would also like to share, here in this anonymity, a secret fear.
...I fear recovery a little bit because I sometimes secretly feel that my depression and insanity are what fuels my talent. So many geniuses have been mad. And that sounds arrogant. I do not think I am any sort of genius, but I hope that someone might someday find in my words something to which they can relate, something that moves them. After so many years of disassociation and numbed hopelessness, it would be nice to think I had touched something, made some mark on this world which so often feels so impervious and flat. It is a child's thinking. I want to believe that there is good in the world and something left to be touched.
I want to be vibrant and happy and beautiful again. It's impossible. I want this to be over.
I post here because there is nowhere else to tell. I can't stand to see one more person run from me. But even here, I feel the same sort of isolation. It's no one's fault. I just seem to have lost the ability to relate properly to life. I am posting as a guest for the comfort of anonymity and because I am on a borrowed computer and, my memory being the wreck it is, will probably fail to remember to sign out. Cowardly I suppose. But I suppose it doesn't really matter.
I've told a handful of people who I care about about the issues I've been having. Some of them took it in stride, or appeared to, mainly they seem to have, out of confusion and fear, decided to shove it away in their mind and pretend it never happened. I wish I could do that. The two people about whom I cared most and whose regard I had the most respect for and who I had the most hope for, as they both, in their times, have dealt with similar issues of mental illness, shutdown, flipped the shit out, and ran as far and as fast as they could. One of them told me to track her down when I was "better." I understood. Understood the reaction. I can only imagine how intense it was to see me self-destructing. I understood the need to run. I've had the same urge. But I stood by them both through pain and insanity. I listened, though I had no implicit obligation to do so. I offered what comfort I could. The mad must tend the mad for no one else shall do so. And it's just the right thing to do. You do what you can, where you can. I believe it is morally, ethically, honorably, I'm not quite sure the word I'm searching for, wrong not to offer aid where it is needed when you can. It costs so little to sit and listen compared to what is lost when, but for the price of an ear, a life could be saved, or something smaller saved or soother, a day, a piece of a person. i have paid the price for being too honest, too blunt. For trying to hard. For caring to much. I suppose that is what it is to live and to be human. And this ridiculous self-pity is part of that same humanity and depression. But I think there is something in me that may be too fragile and too...something...to deal with the daily disillusionments of life. I cannot ask why people do the things they do, or choose the way they do, or feel as they do. I doubt anyone here has anymore concrete or helpful of an answer than I do. It just is. But that same, uncontrollable naive part of me that brings me here in pain, to sit with my fingers pounding uselessly at a keyboard, and spouting depressive kvetching and philosophy is that same part of me that also prompts me to sit here and type it one more time, though I know no one can do it and answer with any sincerity or foreknowledge, but someone tell me, just so I can pretend for a minute, that everything will be alright.
I would also like to share, here in this anonymity, a secret fear.
...I fear recovery a little bit because I sometimes secretly feel that my depression and insanity are what fuels my talent. So many geniuses have been mad. And that sounds arrogant. I do not think I am any sort of genius, but I hope that someone might someday find in my words something to which they can relate, something that moves them. After so many years of disassociation and numbed hopelessness, it would be nice to think I had touched something, made some mark on this world which so often feels so impervious and flat. It is a child's thinking. I want to believe that there is good in the world and something left to be touched.