don't push me, I am not OK
I hadn't showered since Friday night, when I realised I had to go to a meeting. So, I got ready and set out into the night. I'm sitting here, showered, with all the energy one should have at 8:45 in the morning, not the evening --unless, of course, you work graveyard or what not. My timeline is unreal, and I'm not sure how to fix it.
I've been stewing in dirty, sweat-stained clothes since Friday night. The weather is not unbearably hot, but it is too hot to spend as much time as I have under blankets. I wish I could express my intense obsession with blankets; I just like being covered, I suppose. I think, part of it, stems from when I had kawasaki's disease when I was 2 years old; I was in the hospital for about a month and couldn't use blankets. It sounds like one of those stupid explanations that is so damned simple it makes sense.
That will not do, however. I need some sort of existential reason, some deep-seated philosophical reason for my need for blankets. But I don't have that. I'm honestly not sure what I have.
As I was showering, a thought occurred to me: until I do have a job, I have nothing but debt and parents that love me. I owe that much to them to at least get a job, and start anew. I've got to focus on getting through, on continuing. But I worry, just like when grandmother died in 2002, my suicide attempt followed a little over a year later. Will I complete it once my parents are dead?
I shouldn't be talking like that, but I'm literally so isolated. I don't feel comfortable talking to anyone like this, because I know most people don't really get it. I know there are people out there that do, but I don't know how to contact them. They're not part of my current life, if they ever were. I'm not saying that people don't suffer depression or suicidal tendencies, I'm just saying that I only really know one person I can be open and honest with about such. That worries me.
All this is making the bottle more and more inviting. But I don't really want the bottle, I just want the numb feeling. Somehow, I realise, I've never really grown, emotionally, since I was 13, that summer in 1999.
If America is part of the post-modern world, I am indeed living the post-modern life. I'm so cutting edge, I've become regressive.
I had school. I wanted a degree; I wanted love; I wanted closure, of some sort. Well, I have two degrees, not sure I had love but I think I did (or at least as close to it as I can fathom); and, well, I got my closure.
The problem? All this leaves me, naked and alone. Like I said, I can count on some virtual support, and I have my parents, but I don't know. Beyond that, I have to start reaching out to people. That is very painful, as I do indeed come with a lot of baggage. I'm just not sure that anyone has the time or interest for that.
I'm really an unusual breed. An over-educated, over-weight, bipolar, pseudo-intellectual, with Left-leaning politics, no clear religious/spiritual orientation, bisexual, recovering alcoholic, in an area that is not historically known to represent any of those (well, except maybe the over-weight and bipolar).
I guess I could go out of my way to start some support group, or maybe just attend those that to cater to any of those needs I just listed. Ugh. Complain, complain complain.
I just re-read most of this entry, and while I hate it and will undoubtedly regret posting it, I feel I have to. My life is nothing but embarrassment and shame, and why not continue to make it public? As I've learned from the occasional errant comment here and there over the past 8 years, I never really know who is (and who isn't) reading this.
If you're out there, just know that you were right. I don't want you to pity me, or to contact me, however. Even though I want you more than ever, I realise we can't be part of each other's existence anymore. We're ghosts of the past.
A few parting, lyrical thoughts, owning to Pink Floyd and Morrissey:
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
Pink Floyd
And:
I am now
A central part
Of your mind's landscape
Whether you care
Or do not
I've made up your mind
Morrissey
Yeah, I wish it were that easy. I wish I could write like any of those English punks.
I don't know. Something is wrong, something must be fixed. But I don't really know how to do that, short of uprooting my whole existence. But, is that such a bad thing?
Sorry for being mopey, but you know what I think: this place really should be called "whinejournal." Heh. I. Just. Made. That. Up.
(sob)
I've been stewing in dirty, sweat-stained clothes since Friday night. The weather is not unbearably hot, but it is too hot to spend as much time as I have under blankets. I wish I could express my intense obsession with blankets; I just like being covered, I suppose. I think, part of it, stems from when I had kawasaki's disease when I was 2 years old; I was in the hospital for about a month and couldn't use blankets. It sounds like one of those stupid explanations that is so damned simple it makes sense.
That will not do, however. I need some sort of existential reason, some deep-seated philosophical reason for my need for blankets. But I don't have that. I'm honestly not sure what I have.
As I was showering, a thought occurred to me: until I do have a job, I have nothing but debt and parents that love me. I owe that much to them to at least get a job, and start anew. I've got to focus on getting through, on continuing. But I worry, just like when grandmother died in 2002, my suicide attempt followed a little over a year later. Will I complete it once my parents are dead?
I shouldn't be talking like that, but I'm literally so isolated. I don't feel comfortable talking to anyone like this, because I know most people don't really get it. I know there are people out there that do, but I don't know how to contact them. They're not part of my current life, if they ever were. I'm not saying that people don't suffer depression or suicidal tendencies, I'm just saying that I only really know one person I can be open and honest with about such. That worries me.
All this is making the bottle more and more inviting. But I don't really want the bottle, I just want the numb feeling. Somehow, I realise, I've never really grown, emotionally, since I was 13, that summer in 1999.
If America is part of the post-modern world, I am indeed living the post-modern life. I'm so cutting edge, I've become regressive.
I had school. I wanted a degree; I wanted love; I wanted closure, of some sort. Well, I have two degrees, not sure I had love but I think I did (or at least as close to it as I can fathom); and, well, I got my closure.
The problem? All this leaves me, naked and alone. Like I said, I can count on some virtual support, and I have my parents, but I don't know. Beyond that, I have to start reaching out to people. That is very painful, as I do indeed come with a lot of baggage. I'm just not sure that anyone has the time or interest for that.
I'm really an unusual breed. An over-educated, over-weight, bipolar, pseudo-intellectual, with Left-leaning politics, no clear religious/spiritual orientation, bisexual, recovering alcoholic, in an area that is not historically known to represent any of those (well, except maybe the over-weight and bipolar).
I guess I could go out of my way to start some support group, or maybe just attend those that to cater to any of those needs I just listed. Ugh. Complain, complain complain.
I just re-read most of this entry, and while I hate it and will undoubtedly regret posting it, I feel I have to. My life is nothing but embarrassment and shame, and why not continue to make it public? As I've learned from the occasional errant comment here and there over the past 8 years, I never really know who is (and who isn't) reading this.
If you're out there, just know that you were right. I don't want you to pity me, or to contact me, however. Even though I want you more than ever, I realise we can't be part of each other's existence anymore. We're ghosts of the past.
A few parting, lyrical thoughts, owning to Pink Floyd and Morrissey:
We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have you found? The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
Pink Floyd
And:
I am now
A central part
Of your mind's landscape
Whether you care
Or do not
I've made up your mind
Morrissey
Yeah, I wish it were that easy. I wish I could write like any of those English punks.
I don't know. Something is wrong, something must be fixed. But I don't really know how to do that, short of uprooting my whole existence. But, is that such a bad thing?
Sorry for being mopey, but you know what I think: this place really should be called "whinejournal." Heh. I. Just. Made. That. Up.
(sob)