And there's noone else to blame...
It's been a while, I know. But forgive me while I use this to vomit out all of my worst feelings, right now, to finally be free of them.
My pain is driving me crazy. I've been overdosing my THC oil very, very badly, and I feel the fool, because I'm already on so many meds. I'm so sick, and in so much pain, that it's making me realise how pointless I am. My days feel numbered, and I don't know how to cope. I waste those days on fanfic, as a hermit, hiding from people I love, because I'm not worthy of them. I was on Tumblr for a few years, and I met a lot of new people through the Undertale fandom, but a lot of them are very young, some minors, and it makes me uncomfortable. I care about them, and love them in a platonic, familial way, but I know how gross and bad it makes me look, and I'm starting to pull away from them, through no fault of their own. Rather, it's my fault, only my fault, because they deserve to have friends they can trust, that won't make them look bad. Most started out as readers of the fanfic I wrote for Undertale, and I made the mistake, in my endless, isolated loneliness, to befriend them, forgetting in my immaturity that I am not young, but old, and that heaping my problems onto them is wrong, and sickening, and I'm ashamed of it. They don't deserve that. All I wanted to be was a mentor, or a big sister or aunt. I should have never mentioned my feelings, my depression, my pain, my loneliness. They should only care about when the next story is updated, or come to me for support, not to support me. And all I do now is write fanfics. If I do anything original, nobody cares. Not even Terry, my own husband of two years, gives a shit about anything I write or draw, even if original. If he doesn't care, why the fuck should I? I want him to care, to be interested in my works, to be excited with me and help me keep going. He encourages me, of course, but not enough to bother to look at what he's encouraging me to do. It's the only think I do not like, and have never liked, about Terry: that he doesn't give a fuck about my hard work. I get it. He's busy, and works hard, so that I can have the spoilt life I have, today, so that I can create the shit he doesn't care about and not have to work, because by now, I cannot work. This time last year, I was healthier, hopeful. Now I feel nothing. I don't want to draw. I don't want to write. I'm pushing the friends I love the most away, because I love them, and know they are better than I deserve, and deserve better than I can give. Nothing I do matters, anymore. All it is is just pain, pointless projects, and loneliness, a loneliness that is my fault, alone. I don't go out. I can't work. I make no effort to meet new people, face-to-face. And now, I'm running away from the people here, online, realising that I lost most of you long ago, and I deserve that, too. The fact is this: I will never be anything more than a talentless hack, using the works of others to try and tell stories, because my own work is garbage. I look at the people who were friends with me, who now loathe me, and see how much happier and successful they are, and I compare them to the people who did not, and I realise that I am nothing but poison. I am a leech that poisons while sucking my host dry. No wonder my pain keeps increasing; my body wants me to die already, and my brain agrees. I keep saying no, because I don't want to die. I'm scared and selfish, and I don't want to lose what I have, even if I never deserved it. And yet while fearing death, I still wonder if it's the actually the best decision. I won't kill myself - I promised I wouldn't - but, especially right now, I really wish I could, and want to, more than anything, as long as it meant that finally, everyone would be free. Especially Terry, who's trapped in a daily hell, one he's forced to remain in legally, because I am a manipulative piece of shit.
Nobody cares about what I have to say, unless it's wrapped within the universe of someone else's creation. Nobody cares about anything I do, unless it either disrupts their own lives or they're bored and need someone to look down on to feel better.
I quit. I quit writing, I quit drawing. I'll finish the shit I've started, but once it's done, so am I.
Nobody fucking cares. Why the fuck should I...?
EDIT: Please do not redirect this post to Terry. I am posting here specifically because he will not see it, okay? Don't make me lock it, please.
This was originally posted over on Dreamwidth. Feel free to comment on either site!
My pain is driving me crazy. I've been overdosing my THC oil very, very badly, and I feel the fool, because I'm already on so many meds. I'm so sick, and in so much pain, that it's making me realise how pointless I am. My days feel numbered, and I don't know how to cope. I waste those days on fanfic, as a hermit, hiding from people I love, because I'm not worthy of them. I was on Tumblr for a few years, and I met a lot of new people through the Undertale fandom, but a lot of them are very young, some minors, and it makes me uncomfortable. I care about them, and love them in a platonic, familial way, but I know how gross and bad it makes me look, and I'm starting to pull away from them, through no fault of their own. Rather, it's my fault, only my fault, because they deserve to have friends they can trust, that won't make them look bad. Most started out as readers of the fanfic I wrote for Undertale, and I made the mistake, in my endless, isolated loneliness, to befriend them, forgetting in my immaturity that I am not young, but old, and that heaping my problems onto them is wrong, and sickening, and I'm ashamed of it. They don't deserve that. All I wanted to be was a mentor, or a big sister or aunt. I should have never mentioned my feelings, my depression, my pain, my loneliness. They should only care about when the next story is updated, or come to me for support, not to support me. And all I do now is write fanfics. If I do anything original, nobody cares. Not even Terry, my own husband of two years, gives a shit about anything I write or draw, even if original. If he doesn't care, why the fuck should I? I want him to care, to be interested in my works, to be excited with me and help me keep going. He encourages me, of course, but not enough to bother to look at what he's encouraging me to do. It's the only think I do not like, and have never liked, about Terry: that he doesn't give a fuck about my hard work. I get it. He's busy, and works hard, so that I can have the spoilt life I have, today, so that I can create the shit he doesn't care about and not have to work, because by now, I cannot work. This time last year, I was healthier, hopeful. Now I feel nothing. I don't want to draw. I don't want to write. I'm pushing the friends I love the most away, because I love them, and know they are better than I deserve, and deserve better than I can give. Nothing I do matters, anymore. All it is is just pain, pointless projects, and loneliness, a loneliness that is my fault, alone. I don't go out. I can't work. I make no effort to meet new people, face-to-face. And now, I'm running away from the people here, online, realising that I lost most of you long ago, and I deserve that, too. The fact is this: I will never be anything more than a talentless hack, using the works of others to try and tell stories, because my own work is garbage. I look at the people who were friends with me, who now loathe me, and see how much happier and successful they are, and I compare them to the people who did not, and I realise that I am nothing but poison. I am a leech that poisons while sucking my host dry. No wonder my pain keeps increasing; my body wants me to die already, and my brain agrees. I keep saying no, because I don't want to die. I'm scared and selfish, and I don't want to lose what I have, even if I never deserved it. And yet while fearing death, I still wonder if it's the actually the best decision. I won't kill myself - I promised I wouldn't - but, especially right now, I really wish I could, and want to, more than anything, as long as it meant that finally, everyone would be free. Especially Terry, who's trapped in a daily hell, one he's forced to remain in legally, because I am a manipulative piece of shit.
Nobody cares about what I have to say, unless it's wrapped within the universe of someone else's creation. Nobody cares about anything I do, unless it either disrupts their own lives or they're bored and need someone to look down on to feel better.
I quit. I quit writing, I quit drawing. I'll finish the shit I've started, but once it's done, so am I.
Nobody fucking cares. Why the fuck should I...?
EDIT: Please do not redirect this post to Terry. I am posting here specifically because he will not see it, okay? Don't make me lock it, please.
This was originally posted over on Dreamwidth. Feel free to comment on either site!