Celerity
shape without form, shade without colour
- Jan 24, 2021
- 2,733
I'M BACK, BITCHES!
My attempt at SS browsing sobriety is not even a month old, though that honestly puts it ahead at my alcohol sobriety attempts, so....kinda a win, I guess?
I am actually not suicidal at the present moment (odds are, that will be...uh....short-lived). However, you are the most awesome bunch of likeminded, miserable SOBs I have found on the internet, so here I am again. (I mean that with all the love my loveless self carries in her twisted heart)
The subject of today's post is my inconsistent attempt to give the middle finger to the upper 3/5ths of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, which roughly looks like this:
What I Did: For the past 2 weeks, any little whiff of a thought regarding issues in levels 3 (love/belonging), 4 (esteem), and 5 (self-actualization) was shot by my mental firing squad through the EPIC POWER of videogames, quality (Pinterest-approved) junk food, listening to crazy and confusing instrumental music, reading complicated books/articles, pointless chatter with family, sporadic Reddit browsing, and even gazing longingly for bewilderingly inappropriate amounts of time at the adorable longleaf pine trees behind my backyard.
[above image shamelessly stolen, and the pictured tree is not as cute as my shorter, poofier neighborhood pines]
Basically, I did everything I could to avoid thinking about the fact that I am friendless, (romantic) loveless, jobless, and aimless. I avoided thinking about how I am so far from where I wanted to be that I am not even in the same country or planet as my past dreams, much less a neighboring suburb.
Why did I do this? For the vast majority of people on here that I see, suicidal ideation revolves in an endless self-defeating circle around levels 3-5. It is definitely true for me. Aside from my current unemployment, levels 1-2 are givens that I can't really fuck up. And I absolutely love easy shit that I can't fuck up because I am lazy and dead fucking tired of life's endless disappointments.
Did it work? Surprisingly well. For the first time in about a year, I could say that I was not actively suicidal. This was my best stab at "living in the present moment" that the Buddhists love to yap about. Most of them would probably balk at giving up on love and dreams and the rest of that happy shit, but then they haven't been suicidal for most of their lives.
When did it stop working? When my happy-go-lucky dumbass decided that it "couldn't hurt" to browse some erotica. It is compatible with level 1, right? Just like the venerable sages of r/nofap might predict, immediately after my sadcum, I was reminded of my failure to find romantic love, which started a downward spiral that ended in a mild (for me) alcohol binge and mindlessly consuming half a season of Syfy/Amazon's The Expanse to block out the miserable thoughts.
Am I trying this questionable self-help again? Yep, which is why I'll be on and off this website like a seizing epileptic trying to hold a hot potato.
More seriously: Aside from this setback, giving up on my dreams has actually been a blast. I cried for the first 2-3 days after first conceiving this fucked up plan, but it has otherwise been very helpful for my mood. I generally don't reach for the bottle anymore. Expecting my life to get worse and for all my long-term plans to fail has taken a lot of weight off my shoulders. It's like I'm coming to terms with the conclusions I've talked about here before - that I will have: no meaningful friendships, zero romantic relationships, a guarantee that I will hate my career, and continued failing health until I finally decide enough is enough and CTB. That should be bleak AF and part of me still recognizes that it is, but the larger part of me no longer gives AF because I have 3 more seasons of The Expanse, a pan of excellent espresso brownies, and damn good A/C in a miserable Florida summer.
Or maybe I'm going through the most pathetic manic episode ever and will end up in a psych ward. Whatever. I'm keeping my eyes trained on the next 3 days in front of me at a time and what creature comforts (besides sex) life has to offer a fuckup like me. For now, it's good enough. I am done with torturing myself about shit I can't have.
My attempt at SS browsing sobriety is not even a month old, though that honestly puts it ahead at my alcohol sobriety attempts, so....kinda a win, I guess?
I am actually not suicidal at the present moment (odds are, that will be...uh....short-lived). However, you are the most awesome bunch of likeminded, miserable SOBs I have found on the internet, so here I am again. (I mean that with all the love my loveless self carries in her twisted heart)The subject of today's post is my inconsistent attempt to give the middle finger to the upper 3/5ths of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, which roughly looks like this:
What I Did: For the past 2 weeks, any little whiff of a thought regarding issues in levels 3 (love/belonging), 4 (esteem), and 5 (self-actualization) was shot by my mental firing squad through the EPIC POWER of videogames, quality (Pinterest-approved) junk food, listening to crazy and confusing instrumental music, reading complicated books/articles, pointless chatter with family, sporadic Reddit browsing, and even gazing longingly for bewilderingly inappropriate amounts of time at the adorable longleaf pine trees behind my backyard.
[above image shamelessly stolen, and the pictured tree is not as cute as my shorter, poofier neighborhood pines]
Basically, I did everything I could to avoid thinking about the fact that I am friendless, (romantic) loveless, jobless, and aimless. I avoided thinking about how I am so far from where I wanted to be that I am not even in the same country or planet as my past dreams, much less a neighboring suburb.
Why did I do this? For the vast majority of people on here that I see, suicidal ideation revolves in an endless self-defeating circle around levels 3-5. It is definitely true for me. Aside from my current unemployment, levels 1-2 are givens that I can't really fuck up. And I absolutely love easy shit that I can't fuck up because I am lazy and dead fucking tired of life's endless disappointments.
Did it work? Surprisingly well. For the first time in about a year, I could say that I was not actively suicidal. This was my best stab at "living in the present moment" that the Buddhists love to yap about. Most of them would probably balk at giving up on love and dreams and the rest of that happy shit, but then they haven't been suicidal for most of their lives.
When did it stop working? When my happy-go-lucky dumbass decided that it "couldn't hurt" to browse some erotica. It is compatible with level 1, right? Just like the venerable sages of r/nofap might predict, immediately after my sadcum, I was reminded of my failure to find romantic love, which started a downward spiral that ended in a mild (for me) alcohol binge and mindlessly consuming half a season of Syfy/Amazon's The Expanse to block out the miserable thoughts.
Am I trying this questionable self-help again? Yep, which is why I'll be on and off this website like a seizing epileptic trying to hold a hot potato.
More seriously: Aside from this setback, giving up on my dreams has actually been a blast. I cried for the first 2-3 days after first conceiving this fucked up plan, but it has otherwise been very helpful for my mood. I generally don't reach for the bottle anymore. Expecting my life to get worse and for all my long-term plans to fail has taken a lot of weight off my shoulders. It's like I'm coming to terms with the conclusions I've talked about here before - that I will have: no meaningful friendships, zero romantic relationships, a guarantee that I will hate my career, and continued failing health until I finally decide enough is enough and CTB. That should be bleak AF and part of me still recognizes that it is, but the larger part of me no longer gives AF because I have 3 more seasons of The Expanse, a pan of excellent espresso brownies, and damn good A/C in a miserable Florida summer.
Or maybe I'm going through the most pathetic manic episode ever and will end up in a psych ward. Whatever. I'm keeping my eyes trained on the next 3 days in front of me at a time and what creature comforts (besides sex) life has to offer a fuckup like me. For now, it's good enough. I am done with torturing myself about shit I can't have.
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