Well...that lasted real long. *Eyeroll*
Sometimes, I get going well and start feeling good about myself. You'd think I'd stop doing that after a while, considering that every time I do it, something happens to remind me that I'm a fucking emotional cripple.
I don't even know what caused it this time. I was doing ok, and now I hate everyone--especially me--and everything--especially my writing.
Ok, that's not entirely true. I've been catching shit from my parents (my mother, especially) lately, and I can only let it roll off my back like raindrops for so long until it starts seeping in.
"You're so smart, and you went to school for so long. You could do better if you would."
"You can do anything you want, if you just want to bad enough."
"There's nothing wrong with you. You just think there is." (That got an "And I suppose I convinced the doctor there was something wrong when there isn't, too?" out of me. I should've known better than to say anything, though, because the answer was "Yes, you did.")
"You need to get out and get a job." Because, clearly, all these 14+ hour days I pull do not count as a "job" in her world.
There's a lot more, but it's all along those lines, so there's not much point in rehashing it over and over again.
You know, I don't talk about what's wrong with me to people often. And I pretty much NEVER say anything about it to my parents because that is the exact type of bullshit I get. I'm not asking to be coddled. I'm not asking for pity. But it would be nice to have it fucking acknowledged when I point out that the reason I'm 30 years old and completely and utterly fucked is that I'm having to start my life over completely from scratch because I was sick and blew it all to hell. But, no, it's not that. I'm just lazy, just like I've been accused of being my whole fucking life.
On one hand, I'm glad that people don't get it because it means they've never been there. They've never had to live with a fire burning in their skulls while the reactor melts down, to borrow a metaphor from one of my shitty poems. They've never stared into the abyss and had it stare back. They've never cried out to a God who either wasn't there or didn't fucking care enough to help. They've never hated everyone and everything in the world (but never as much as they hated themselves). They've never had to deal with side effects of pills--thank you, Lamictal, for the vicious acid reflux that makes it impossible for me to even eat or sleep sometimes--or with other people being dismissive of their problems or with the despair that comes with being 30 years old and worse off than you were in college.
But on the other hand, even though I wouldn't wish this shit on anyone, it WOULD be nice if they could spend 10 minutes in my head. I expect they'd STFU then.
Hell, maybe I do use it as an excuse. I don't know. I don't think I do, but I'm not exactly known for my insight into my own behavior/thoughts/emotions/motivations. I just...I've lived without hope. Completely without it. There is nothing in the world worse than that. I don't want to go back to it. It's a wonder I lived through it the first time. Just the thought alone terrifies me. I will do anything and everything to keep from going back to it, and if that means leaning on crutches more than I should, then so be it. And fuck you if you don't like it.
Normal people can cook and clean their houses and take care of themselves and have jobs and pay their bills and have friends and just generally do the daily tasks of life. Hell, even sick people can do it. So why can't I? Am I that broken? Am I that afraid? Or is it some innate character flaw inside of me? Maybe it is. I don't fucking know.
Do normal people live with the specter of their own suicides hanging over their heads all the time? Not their own deaths, mind you. All of us live with that. The thought of dropping dead doesn't really bother me that badly. What terrifies me--what wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold fucking sweat--is the thought that all hope will abandon me again and I will once more be driven to that place where I can't live with it anymore. Is it normal for people to always have at least 3 easy methods of killing themselves in the backs of their minds all the time, anytime, just in case they can't take it anymore? I suspect not. But maybe it is, though. What the fuck do I know about being normal?
The absolute worst thing of it all, though, is the struggle to write. I want to so badly. There's so much in my head that needs to come out, but I can't do it. I'm overwhelmed by my own words, and none of it comes out even remotely like it needs to, and I just hate myself for it. Everything I write is shit, and I hate it, and I feel like there's some demon or other standing back and laughing at me because I agonize so heavily over something I'm so goddamned bad at.
It's the same old refrain that's been playing in my head my whole life: You're not good enough. You never have been. And no matter what you do, you never will be. You're not good enough.
Well...that was thoroughly uplifting, wasn't it?
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