Toxinebulaic
winter is coming
- Aug 2, 2023
- 38
You know, it's kind of funny.
I'm aware that every topic that I could possibly dream up and vent about on this site has been talked about at length. That makes me feel like one, insignificant part of a world that gives me no voice. I'm also aware that nobody in my personal life and nobody I will likely ever meet in my personal life can or will talk to me about any of those topics. That makes me feel like a uniquely lonely soul. It's so painfully ironic - the freedom to express any idea I want to, but only to the people it matters to the least.
I came to this forum after a night of trying to understand my frequent floods of soulsickness. I disassociated myself and flew into my subconscious imagination, a reflection of my mind's eye that seems to bathe in self loathing and punishment. In this disassociation, I contemplated my friends. The word was hot to the touch. Scalding. It seemed to burn in it's woeful inadequacy as a descriptor of what I thought should be true, unbreakable connections. People use the word friend for everything and anyone. Even people they don't like. Without a twinge of irony they will call anybody from their worst abuser to their truest lover a friend. This is where words can't reconcile with reality. I have so many friends. Some of them I don't want to be friends with. Some of them I want to be more than friends with. But none of them understand me. I lost the chance to create a true connection so very long ago. And It breaks me.
I have obsessions, I have dark necessities, I have crude images in my mind constantly. You'd think with a world so diverse and a group of friends so nihilistic, some of them would have come to find themselves in a similar enough predicament that they and I could share in our experiences of reality. You'd be wrong. And it breaks me. I look for that person everywhere. Not a lover, nothing romantic is in this. I suppose romance could play a part in it, but I don't think it has to. I just need somebody who actually understands why I like things. Why I don't like things. Who I am. I want to be able to say something to someone about how my brain works and be confident that they won't look at me like they want to send me to a mental asylum like all the other people who made the same mistake.
My parents had a habit of strongarming and intimidating me when I was younger, leading to me ultimately being scared of talking to them about anything that might make them angry with me. That included mental illness. This dynamic was something I slowly started despising as I got older, so eventually, I took a stand for myself and stopped being honest and scared of them as I always had been. The longer it went on, the more I realized that they had nothing to offer me emotionally. And it broke me. I sat alone on a roof one night, and realized that they hadn't fostered the relationship necessary for us to truly care about each other. They'd barely even tried. My dad is in the military, and because of that he was away for my early childhood. We travelled a lot, only finally placing roots down when I was 10. And nobody ever understood me. I was always the weird one, the odd one out. Even when I did research, realized I couldn't be normal and went to my parents asking for a psychological assessment, they brushed it off and pretended everything was fine. It was never fine. Everything was wrong. I procrastinated. I couldn't do anything. I hated myself. I looked in the mirror and didn't see a human. I started to become truly convinced that I would never become anything.
For me, that's when the thoughts started. Not that they hadn't been there before, I had a history of s/h and suicidal thoughts long before, but I never truly considered death as an option. Suddenly, I considered it. I continue to consider it. It's been years of contemplation during which I have failed to decide what the correct answer is. Will things get better? Maybe. Will things get worse? Probably. I find myself addicted to things that even in our modern age are stigmatized and hard to talk about. Not drugs, I'm past that. I'm talking about the type of stuff that gets you worried whenever you have to google something on your phone starting with a p in front of literally anybody else. Compulsively.
I talked to friends, I tried to get better, it worked for a while. It's gotten worse again. If I don't have to wake up for anything, I won't wake up until 12:00pm. I can't do anything, I procrastinate endlessly, I spend more energy telling people I want to do something than I do actually doing it, and if that thing happens to be work that somebody else has assigned me? Oh boy, you'd better be ready for it to stay incomplete forever and ever!
It's painful, it's endless, I feel like the creature at the end of I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream, uncapable of doing anything, including suicide. I have all these amazing ideas and plans and I terrify myself every day because not only can I not follow through on any of those plans, but that feeling of helplessness combined with the fact that the only time my life isn't stressful and torturous is when I'm not conscious. It makes me want to kill myself.
Maybe that's not the sad story I feel I'm obligated to tell if I want to go around telling people I'm a raging suicidaholic who just can't get enough of telling himself how much he sucks and how great it would be if he could just cease to exist, but it's how I feel. I'm a rotting mind, free to explore the outer limits of its imagination, but incapable of sharing that imagination with anybody in a genuine way, manifesting that imagination physically, or even ending it all so that it doesn't have to deal with the anguish that all of the above causes.
I wish there was an easy way out, but there's not. The sick and twisted part is that the only way to get out and get better at working again is to work. The only way to get strong is to work out. The only way to finish a book is to write it. The only way to make a game is to make it. It's so simple, isn't it? It's so cut and dry, so easy? Wouldn't it be hilarious if there were somebody who didn't have the faintest bit of motivation to do anything and who was told by society that he is lazy, apathetic, and stupid so often that he actually accepted it? Wouldn't that be a goddamn riot?
Yeah. I suppose it is. At this time of night, I've already thought out the subhuman squalor I think in on loop. At this point, all that's left to do is laugh. The actor I am playing the role of the fool.
I'm sorry if you read all of this. It's long, it's a waste of time, it's not important. It's more for me than for anybody else. I feel stupid that I feel a need to do this at all. Desperately trying to make you care. It's disrespectful and selfish. Forgive me.
I need to go to sleep.
My parents had a habit of strongarming and intimidating me when I was younger, leading to me ultimately being scared of talking to them about anything that might make them angry with me. That included mental illness. This dynamic was something I slowly started despising as I got older, so eventually, I took a stand for myself and stopped being honest and scared of them as I always had been. The longer it went on, the more I realized that they had nothing to offer me emotionally. And it broke me. I sat alone on a roof one night, and realized that they hadn't fostered the relationship necessary for us to truly care about each other. They'd barely even tried. My dad is in the military, and because of that he was away for my early childhood. We travelled a lot, only finally placing roots down when I was 10. And nobody ever understood me. I was always the weird one, the odd one out. Even when I did research, realized I couldn't be normal and went to my parents asking for a psychological assessment, they brushed it off and pretended everything was fine. It was never fine. Everything was wrong. I procrastinated. I couldn't do anything. I hated myself. I looked in the mirror and didn't see a human. I started to become truly convinced that I would never become anything.
For me, that's when the thoughts started. Not that they hadn't been there before, I had a history of s/h and suicidal thoughts long before, but I never truly considered death as an option. Suddenly, I considered it. I continue to consider it. It's been years of contemplation during which I have failed to decide what the correct answer is. Will things get better? Maybe. Will things get worse? Probably. I find myself addicted to things that even in our modern age are stigmatized and hard to talk about. Not drugs, I'm past that. I'm talking about the type of stuff that gets you worried whenever you have to google something on your phone starting with a p in front of literally anybody else. Compulsively.
I talked to friends, I tried to get better, it worked for a while. It's gotten worse again. If I don't have to wake up for anything, I won't wake up until 12:00pm. I can't do anything, I procrastinate endlessly, I spend more energy telling people I want to do something than I do actually doing it, and if that thing happens to be work that somebody else has assigned me? Oh boy, you'd better be ready for it to stay incomplete forever and ever!
It's painful, it's endless, I feel like the creature at the end of I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream, uncapable of doing anything, including suicide. I have all these amazing ideas and plans and I terrify myself every day because not only can I not follow through on any of those plans, but that feeling of helplessness combined with the fact that the only time my life isn't stressful and torturous is when I'm not conscious. It makes me want to kill myself.
Maybe that's not the sad story I feel I'm obligated to tell if I want to go around telling people I'm a raging suicidaholic who just can't get enough of telling himself how much he sucks and how great it would be if he could just cease to exist, but it's how I feel. I'm a rotting mind, free to explore the outer limits of its imagination, but incapable of sharing that imagination with anybody in a genuine way, manifesting that imagination physically, or even ending it all so that it doesn't have to deal with the anguish that all of the above causes.
I wish there was an easy way out, but there's not. The sick and twisted part is that the only way to get out and get better at working again is to work. The only way to get strong is to work out. The only way to finish a book is to write it. The only way to make a game is to make it. It's so simple, isn't it? It's so cut and dry, so easy? Wouldn't it be hilarious if there were somebody who didn't have the faintest bit of motivation to do anything and who was told by society that he is lazy, apathetic, and stupid so often that he actually accepted it? Wouldn't that be a goddamn riot?
Yeah. I suppose it is. At this time of night, I've already thought out the subhuman squalor I think in on loop. At this point, all that's left to do is laugh. The actor I am playing the role of the fool.
I'm sorry if you read all of this. It's long, it's a waste of time, it's not important. It's more for me than for anybody else. I feel stupid that I feel a need to do this at all. Desperately trying to make you care. It's disrespectful and selfish. Forgive me.
I need to go to sleep.
