(no subject)
I only remember this place when I'm having a catastrophic depressive episode.
But if we're to be honest - and what can one be, if one is not honest? - that's the only sort of episode I have these days that isn't an immobilizing sense of ennui.
I wrote a book. A quite good one, really, in the sense that anything in its genre can be judged to be of quality. But I wrote it for a woman, and that never ends well when the relationship is finished before the book is. In a pique, I erased every last trace of it from existence and have refused to even contemplate writing since. So I suppose that is, if nothing else, a life lesson: never plan on someone meaning what they say, on feeling what they say they feel, on keeping promises.
As if I didn't learn that lesson years ago. As if I won't sit somewhere and reflect on how I should have learned it the last time the next time it happens, play-by-play repetitions of past events down to the same hints, the same lies, the same inevitable ending.
I like to think I won't go down that road again. It takes too much out of me. It's such a common thing to say, but when you've spent so much of your life half-aware and half-raging it's so god damn exhausting and so god damn terrible when someone you let in to that degree turns out to be nothing but another god damn person and not the shimmering idea that you've convinced yourself they are.
I contemplate suicide at least once a month. I'm almost thirty - the thought alone is crushing - and have accomplished nothing of note. I haven't had a drink since I was 25. I haven't used drugs - any of them, not benzos or barbituates or lovely, comforting, numbing opiates - in almost as long. And if you believe nothing else that I say, believe that sobriety doesn't make life any easier. I think it actually makes it a little harder - when you aren't wasted, you have to actually feel everything as it happens, when it happens, and not as a sort of blurred sensation pushing against the periphery of your consciousness.
I told someone - well, actually, I told a lot of people - that barring some astronomical windfall or major reversal of fortune I saw no real reason to do other than kill myself at 30. That's a little more than seven months away. I'd like to say I'll do it as much as I'd like to say I've found a reason not to do it, but in reality I'll probably just sit here wishing I didn't feel the need to.
But if we're to be honest - and what can one be, if one is not honest? - that's the only sort of episode I have these days that isn't an immobilizing sense of ennui.
I wrote a book. A quite good one, really, in the sense that anything in its genre can be judged to be of quality. But I wrote it for a woman, and that never ends well when the relationship is finished before the book is. In a pique, I erased every last trace of it from existence and have refused to even contemplate writing since. So I suppose that is, if nothing else, a life lesson: never plan on someone meaning what they say, on feeling what they say they feel, on keeping promises.
As if I didn't learn that lesson years ago. As if I won't sit somewhere and reflect on how I should have learned it the last time the next time it happens, play-by-play repetitions of past events down to the same hints, the same lies, the same inevitable ending.
I like to think I won't go down that road again. It takes too much out of me. It's such a common thing to say, but when you've spent so much of your life half-aware and half-raging it's so god damn exhausting and so god damn terrible when someone you let in to that degree turns out to be nothing but another god damn person and not the shimmering idea that you've convinced yourself they are.
I contemplate suicide at least once a month. I'm almost thirty - the thought alone is crushing - and have accomplished nothing of note. I haven't had a drink since I was 25. I haven't used drugs - any of them, not benzos or barbituates or lovely, comforting, numbing opiates - in almost as long. And if you believe nothing else that I say, believe that sobriety doesn't make life any easier. I think it actually makes it a little harder - when you aren't wasted, you have to actually feel everything as it happens, when it happens, and not as a sort of blurred sensation pushing against the periphery of your consciousness.
I told someone - well, actually, I told a lot of people - that barring some astronomical windfall or major reversal of fortune I saw no real reason to do other than kill myself at 30. That's a little more than seven months away. I'd like to say I'll do it as much as I'd like to say I've found a reason not to do it, but in reality I'll probably just sit here wishing I didn't feel the need to.