(no subject)
I have to write something. I have to be here, anchoring myself before my paranoia drives me to do something completely dumb. Nothing dangerous, I don't think. My self-preservation instincts have always been very powerful, so that's one thing to be grateful for.
There's literally no one, no one AT ALL, that is currently available to talk to. I will not, must not ruin anybody's Christmas. Just because I'm having a shitty time doesn't mean everyone else has to have it with me. They have the right to be happy. I just have to, tough this out somehow.
It's not sadness. It's not rage. I suspect if I can ponder on my madness, I can rule it out. I might possibly be insane. I can never be sure. What are you measuring it against? Maybe we're all a little crazy, but if we're functional and not harming anyone, that's ok right? Isn't that what "insane" usually refers to? Someone who acts against the norm and either harms themselves or someone else. Harm principle seems to be very much in force. If nothing is harmed, even if you're a little strange, then you're only just eccentric. Not crazy. Certainly not insane. Psychopathy requires victims.
Though on account that I might possibly be harming myself, however indirectly, then yes, I might just b mildly nsane. Mild. Heh. Like mildly poisonous, Enough to give you a bad case of the runs, but not enough to kill. Something like that.
Word vomit. It all has to go somewhere. I have not spoken in days. Would have been longer, if I had not gone to a friend's gathering just Saturday. The sound of my own voice comes to me in hushed mutters, from where I whisper to myself, throaty noises that remind me that I am in possession of a working vocal box. I do not talk to myself. The last time I did, I used it to berate myself. I have not been so emotional for years.
Vestiges of anxiety. Unsettled nerves, bordering on fear. But not quite, not quite there. I have experienced full blown panic attacks at times in my past; I am quite aware of the difference in scale. This is barely a sneeze compared to the real thing. Ghosts of the past, clinging on to the edges of the present. I will not succumb. I am stronger than this. I will conquer my fear. My terror. My anxiety. I will master my emotions, I will press them out of sight, beyond breath, close it all off so that I can take my next breath without fear. I will not give in to childish fears. I am here. There are options. I can ask for help.
Just not now, not right now, not on bloody Christmas Eve, where everyone else is with family or celebrating. I can be strong on my own, for myself, because that's the way it has always been. And it doesn't get better than this. No one else can know. No one can come any closer, because I will hurt them. I will lash out and I will choke and tear, rip and bite, crush all opposition because I CAN ONLY CAUSE HARM. I will only hurt you, because I don't know how to do anything else. It is easier to be cold. Easier to let them think I don't care. Easier to brush it away, because trying to care has only ever hurt me and others around me.
I deserve this. I deserve to be alone. Because yes, I do not want to even try. I wanted to, but I failed and...and I am powerless. I could not explain myself without lacing the truth with poison. I was like a hurt, angry child who screamed, cried, and tossed anything handy and breakable at the nearest target. I am a bitter, angry person who hides it under a cheerful, laidback demeanour. I am broken, and godsdamnit, do I no know it. There's a core inside that is resentful, vindictive, and it tears at others without mercy. I have to cage it away. I rather be silent and hurt others, than let it out and hurt the more..... Don't you see? I poison everything I touch. It is good she left...because I don't know how to love. I can only hurt. And if anyone must hurt, let it be me. Please, let it just be me and spare everyone else. Please. Please. I beg of you. Please.
Even my tears skim only the surface. Washes out and around the impenetrable core. I feel it sitting heavy as lead in my chest. Twin says I am sick, diseased, that it isn't my fault that I'm ill with a condition that preys on my mind and heart.
I won't let anyone rescue me. I won't put that burden on someone else. If anyone must save me, I must be the one to do it. Only I can save myself. If I let someone else do it, I'll be dependent on them...and I can't let that happen. Not for myself, but becaus no one should have to bear this. I don't want to become an obligation. I can't afford to be a burden. I already am one, as I am. I can't make it worse. I don't want whoever it is to hate me. I already hate myself. I don't need more. I can't bear more.
Only I can help myself, but I'm not even sure if I want to be helped. That's the problem, isn't it? I don't think I deserve it. I have no dreams, no goals, nothing in life that inspires me. Just vague, unformed dreams. I have become afraid to hope. I am damaged. I a broken. I do not know if I can remade, or if I can be, what into. What purpose do I have? What do I want?
What do I want from life? An end. I want an end to my fear. To my uncertainty. I want to walk on the edge of death to feel alive. But coward that I am, I have never stepped beyond the boundaries. I take care, because to cause harm to myself would mean that I have to suffer alone in pain and fear. When I am thrashing and ill with fever, ONLY I AM THERE. ONLY I LIVE WITH THE CONSEQUENCES. There is no one to soothe me. There is no one to salve me. There is no one to hold my hand and tell me it's going to be alright. There is only me, So I can't be sick. So I can't be ill. So I cannot hurt myself or feel or do anything that would make me weak and injured. I must be strong. I must stand. I cannot fall. I must take care, because only I can take care of myself. There is no one with me, and I can't expect anyone to do so. I am alone. I have always been alone. I do not know if that extends to the future, but I do not allow myself to hope for more. I can only look to myself. Always, always to myself.
I can smile for others. I can be there when there is need for me, however rare that is. I can be cheerful and efficient and a riot to be around if the company is right. The funny thing about having nothing inside is that I can masquerade as just about anything. I just have to shove me side and settle into the role. Method acting, they call it. I should win an Oscar for this charade. Except no one notices, or if they do, they are polite enough to not unmask me. How nice.
Practical. The only kind of practicality I can extend to myself is the lack of self mutilation. I would never resort to such crude means. I would not kill myself unless under the influence of mind altering chemicals. Which I conveniently would not have access to, because 1) I don't know how, and 2) alcohol is expensive and I rather spend it on food. See, practical.
This damn practicality is making a puppet out of me. But it's also the only thing keeping me alive. Not sane, maybe, but alive. Alive and well too. Can't ask for too much, huh?
There are always worse things in life. This is nothing. Understand? This i nothing t all. I am not starving. I have a roof over my head. I am able bodied. I am not ill...at least not physically. My mental defects are so cleverly disguised (ha) that it would take extended observation to notice irregularities. I have no prospects in the immediate future....only because I am not applying myself. I might not rule the world in the foreseeable future, but I can make a decent living if I tried. Nothing big. But I can feed myself.
And I really hate that. So much. I despise it with the strength of a thousand suns. Imagine a fucking Ferrari being made to run in a child's go-kart track. Now, I'm not quite so impressive. I am not that smart. Not that capable. Not that talented. But I have something, and I'm not using it. That makes me hate myself more than anything. And I don't know how to explain it. I blew my chances. And I'm not getting anything more. That's the way life works. I screwed up. Game over. No restarts.
Do you know how humiliating it is? To not use the brain you have beyond petty things? I can only escape into abstract theory. Into my stories. Because that's the only place where I can let my mind play with things that others don't even bother to comprehend. Useless, meaningless things. Impractical shit that won't feed me. Because I am unmanned. Because I have no more power. No more control, and I despise myself more than I despise rapists. Rapists are beasts in human form. They have no control. They are beyond contempt. I understand their petty motivations; power, lust, control. These things are base instincts, primal and dominating. Beasts. No more, no less. Easy to understand. I do not condone. I understand, and I despise them. But animals can't help themselves, can they? No control. Weak.
But me. Ah, me. Weak-willed. Easily manipulated. Lazy and unmotivated. A perfectly fine specimen of a person that went wrong and never recovered. A fucking waste. That's worse than a mere beast. I wa aware, and I let me g just like that. And I can't stop hating myself, so much so that I can't even think myself out of the rut I managed to dig into. And kept digging into.
Hatred. I've lived with it for so long, I don't even remember a time before it. Which has to be wrong. Because I wasn't always like this. Because once upon a time I was brilliant, or so other people tell me. Now I'm just a twisted wreck, a shade of my former self, an incomplete wraith wearing human skin. I'm not entirely here, and even if people can love that skin, they will eventually recoil and LEAVE once they touch the rotting husk underneath. Isn't that right? Because I'm a cold, damaged bastard who couldn't love. Fooled you, didn't I? Fooled everyone, even myself. I am an angry person, but I've buried it so deep that only flashes of it escape. Like right now. And even then, only a hint.
What mockery have I become? I want to cry and beg for help, but I wouldn't believe it. And no one hears. Never in time to make a difference anyway. What does it matter? What do I matter? I tried. It wasn't enough. I don't know what to do. My hands, they are stained with failure. I want so badly to rip and tear at myself, but that would only bring pain and infection. So...no. I bear my scars within. The wounds fester on the inside. I am drunk on pus and tears, gorged on maggots in diseased flesh.
I am whole, only on the outside. See me smile!
And I shut everything away again.
There's literally no one, no one AT ALL, that is currently available to talk to. I will not, must not ruin anybody's Christmas. Just because I'm having a shitty time doesn't mean everyone else has to have it with me. They have the right to be happy. I just have to, tough this out somehow.
It's not sadness. It's not rage. I suspect if I can ponder on my madness, I can rule it out. I might possibly be insane. I can never be sure. What are you measuring it against? Maybe we're all a little crazy, but if we're functional and not harming anyone, that's ok right? Isn't that what "insane" usually refers to? Someone who acts against the norm and either harms themselves or someone else. Harm principle seems to be very much in force. If nothing is harmed, even if you're a little strange, then you're only just eccentric. Not crazy. Certainly not insane. Psychopathy requires victims.
Though on account that I might possibly be harming myself, however indirectly, then yes, I might just b mildly nsane. Mild. Heh. Like mildly poisonous, Enough to give you a bad case of the runs, but not enough to kill. Something like that.
Word vomit. It all has to go somewhere. I have not spoken in days. Would have been longer, if I had not gone to a friend's gathering just Saturday. The sound of my own voice comes to me in hushed mutters, from where I whisper to myself, throaty noises that remind me that I am in possession of a working vocal box. I do not talk to myself. The last time I did, I used it to berate myself. I have not been so emotional for years.
Vestiges of anxiety. Unsettled nerves, bordering on fear. But not quite, not quite there. I have experienced full blown panic attacks at times in my past; I am quite aware of the difference in scale. This is barely a sneeze compared to the real thing. Ghosts of the past, clinging on to the edges of the present. I will not succumb. I am stronger than this. I will conquer my fear. My terror. My anxiety. I will master my emotions, I will press them out of sight, beyond breath, close it all off so that I can take my next breath without fear. I will not give in to childish fears. I am here. There are options. I can ask for help.
Just not now, not right now, not on bloody Christmas Eve, where everyone else is with family or celebrating. I can be strong on my own, for myself, because that's the way it has always been. And it doesn't get better than this. No one else can know. No one can come any closer, because I will hurt them. I will lash out and I will choke and tear, rip and bite, crush all opposition because I CAN ONLY CAUSE HARM. I will only hurt you, because I don't know how to do anything else. It is easier to be cold. Easier to let them think I don't care. Easier to brush it away, because trying to care has only ever hurt me and others around me.
I deserve this. I deserve to be alone. Because yes, I do not want to even try. I wanted to, but I failed and...and I am powerless. I could not explain myself without lacing the truth with poison. I was like a hurt, angry child who screamed, cried, and tossed anything handy and breakable at the nearest target. I am a bitter, angry person who hides it under a cheerful, laidback demeanour. I am broken, and godsdamnit, do I no know it. There's a core inside that is resentful, vindictive, and it tears at others without mercy. I have to cage it away. I rather be silent and hurt others, than let it out and hurt the more..... Don't you see? I poison everything I touch. It is good she left...because I don't know how to love. I can only hurt. And if anyone must hurt, let it be me. Please, let it just be me and spare everyone else. Please. Please. I beg of you. Please.
Even my tears skim only the surface. Washes out and around the impenetrable core. I feel it sitting heavy as lead in my chest. Twin says I am sick, diseased, that it isn't my fault that I'm ill with a condition that preys on my mind and heart.
I won't let anyone rescue me. I won't put that burden on someone else. If anyone must save me, I must be the one to do it. Only I can save myself. If I let someone else do it, I'll be dependent on them...and I can't let that happen. Not for myself, but becaus no one should have to bear this. I don't want to become an obligation. I can't afford to be a burden. I already am one, as I am. I can't make it worse. I don't want whoever it is to hate me. I already hate myself. I don't need more. I can't bear more.
Only I can help myself, but I'm not even sure if I want to be helped. That's the problem, isn't it? I don't think I deserve it. I have no dreams, no goals, nothing in life that inspires me. Just vague, unformed dreams. I have become afraid to hope. I am damaged. I a broken. I do not know if I can remade, or if I can be, what into. What purpose do I have? What do I want?
What do I want from life? An end. I want an end to my fear. To my uncertainty. I want to walk on the edge of death to feel alive. But coward that I am, I have never stepped beyond the boundaries. I take care, because to cause harm to myself would mean that I have to suffer alone in pain and fear. When I am thrashing and ill with fever, ONLY I AM THERE. ONLY I LIVE WITH THE CONSEQUENCES. There is no one to soothe me. There is no one to salve me. There is no one to hold my hand and tell me it's going to be alright. There is only me, So I can't be sick. So I can't be ill. So I cannot hurt myself or feel or do anything that would make me weak and injured. I must be strong. I must stand. I cannot fall. I must take care, because only I can take care of myself. There is no one with me, and I can't expect anyone to do so. I am alone. I have always been alone. I do not know if that extends to the future, but I do not allow myself to hope for more. I can only look to myself. Always, always to myself.
I can smile for others. I can be there when there is need for me, however rare that is. I can be cheerful and efficient and a riot to be around if the company is right. The funny thing about having nothing inside is that I can masquerade as just about anything. I just have to shove me side and settle into the role. Method acting, they call it. I should win an Oscar for this charade. Except no one notices, or if they do, they are polite enough to not unmask me. How nice.
Practical. The only kind of practicality I can extend to myself is the lack of self mutilation. I would never resort to such crude means. I would not kill myself unless under the influence of mind altering chemicals. Which I conveniently would not have access to, because 1) I don't know how, and 2) alcohol is expensive and I rather spend it on food. See, practical.
This damn practicality is making a puppet out of me. But it's also the only thing keeping me alive. Not sane, maybe, but alive. Alive and well too. Can't ask for too much, huh?
There are always worse things in life. This is nothing. Understand? This i nothing t all. I am not starving. I have a roof over my head. I am able bodied. I am not ill...at least not physically. My mental defects are so cleverly disguised (ha) that it would take extended observation to notice irregularities. I have no prospects in the immediate future....only because I am not applying myself. I might not rule the world in the foreseeable future, but I can make a decent living if I tried. Nothing big. But I can feed myself.
And I really hate that. So much. I despise it with the strength of a thousand suns. Imagine a fucking Ferrari being made to run in a child's go-kart track. Now, I'm not quite so impressive. I am not that smart. Not that capable. Not that talented. But I have something, and I'm not using it. That makes me hate myself more than anything. And I don't know how to explain it. I blew my chances. And I'm not getting anything more. That's the way life works. I screwed up. Game over. No restarts.
Do you know how humiliating it is? To not use the brain you have beyond petty things? I can only escape into abstract theory. Into my stories. Because that's the only place where I can let my mind play with things that others don't even bother to comprehend. Useless, meaningless things. Impractical shit that won't feed me. Because I am unmanned. Because I have no more power. No more control, and I despise myself more than I despise rapists. Rapists are beasts in human form. They have no control. They are beyond contempt. I understand their petty motivations; power, lust, control. These things are base instincts, primal and dominating. Beasts. No more, no less. Easy to understand. I do not condone. I understand, and I despise them. But animals can't help themselves, can they? No control. Weak.
But me. Ah, me. Weak-willed. Easily manipulated. Lazy and unmotivated. A perfectly fine specimen of a person that went wrong and never recovered. A fucking waste. That's worse than a mere beast. I wa aware, and I let me g just like that. And I can't stop hating myself, so much so that I can't even think myself out of the rut I managed to dig into. And kept digging into.
Hatred. I've lived with it for so long, I don't even remember a time before it. Which has to be wrong. Because I wasn't always like this. Because once upon a time I was brilliant, or so other people tell me. Now I'm just a twisted wreck, a shade of my former self, an incomplete wraith wearing human skin. I'm not entirely here, and even if people can love that skin, they will eventually recoil and LEAVE once they touch the rotting husk underneath. Isn't that right? Because I'm a cold, damaged bastard who couldn't love. Fooled you, didn't I? Fooled everyone, even myself. I am an angry person, but I've buried it so deep that only flashes of it escape. Like right now. And even then, only a hint.
What mockery have I become? I want to cry and beg for help, but I wouldn't believe it. And no one hears. Never in time to make a difference anyway. What does it matter? What do I matter? I tried. It wasn't enough. I don't know what to do. My hands, they are stained with failure. I want so badly to rip and tear at myself, but that would only bring pain and infection. So...no. I bear my scars within. The wounds fester on the inside. I am drunk on pus and tears, gorged on maggots in diseased flesh.
I am whole, only on the outside. See me smile!
And I shut everything away again.