I grew up largely unparented.
Nobody was watching over me, monitoring my growth, making sure I got what I needed. This hothouse flower was a lot more like a weed, growing however I grew using whatever I found wherever I ended up.
Like a weed, I was technically unwanted, but the truth was, nobody gave a shit either way. Live. Die. Explode. We don’t care,
Just leaves us the hell alone and quit reminding us you exist.
We really enjoy pretending you were never born. Those were such blissful, you-free days. So innocent and pure, without a care in the world, just sunshine meadows and big blue skies everywhere all the time.
Then you had to show up and insist on being born and it’s been downhill ever since.
So yeah, no shit there was nobody watching over you. Nobody could even stand to be around you. Watching over you would required remembering and acknowledging your existence on a constant, long term basis.
Actually caring whether you live or die or your head catches on fire is absolutely out of the question for the likes of you.
So yeah. Basically raised myself, alone, with absolutely no social support system. No friends, no siblings, no parents, no sympathetic authority figures, nada.
Not so much as a friendly crossing guard.
Once more I wonder how I didn’t end up much crazier than I am. It could have been so much worse. Especially in my teen years, with all that rage and lust bubbling in my head with no place to go.
I guess I am just fundamentally stable. Perhaps that’s because of my cold unemotional nature. The crazy thoughts never get very far because my basic instinct is to shut down anything that might lead to action, good OR bad.
And I have that core of stubborn rationality that insists on things making sense. Crazy thoughts by definition do not make sense. My powerful logic engine has a lot of problems but it keeps me marginally sane.
Well, maybe not, but it keeps me from becoming the more colorful kind of crazy.
The kind that leads to crazy actions.
The kind that actually gets the attention of the powers that be, unlike us boring depressives who never do anything fun.
Not that I’m bitter.
Honestly, the only thing keeping me from seeing if being batshit crazy is any better than being only kinda crazy is I am way too paranoid to lose contact with reality because that’s exactly when it would sneak up and GET me.
Which is, of course, crazier than the ten most popular brands of fuck.
Because I grew up unparented, I guess I can claim to be a self-made man,
But only because nobody else wanted the god damned job.
Very short paragraphs.
No wonder I have so many pieces missing. A lot of who people become comes from other people. Influences, inspirations, guidance, counterexamples. Family, friends, roommates, lovers, co-workers, bosses, people you met on the bus.
I have none of that.
So what the fuck am I, then? A puppet with broken strings? A cipher of ice and dirt? A meaningless squiggle of flesh and intellect given life by a bored God who was thinking about something else at the time? A worm on a hook in a pond with no fish? A broken frozen memento of a carnival nobody visited? The misbegotten spawn of an ill advised attempt to make something interesting?
Surely, with all this power and potential, it is at least theoretically possible to make somethin functional and worthwhile of myself.
But with all this toxicity and pain making me crippled and weak…. I can’t do it.
Not all by myself.
And nobody in this whole fucking world can help me either.
More after the break.
I…. walk along,,,,
Feeling like this right about now :
Yes, it’s that “long dark corridor” feeling again. Like I am moving slowly and smoothly through an endless darkened corridor in a seamless silence. Its walls are an unbroken chargoal gray and I travel without effort, as if my forward motion is as much an inherent property of my being as my height or weight.
Gee, it must take a lot of energy to keep being bipedal like that.
I’d consider this one of my spooky “haunted” moods. There’s a lot of quality space for ghosts in these corridors. I have that feeling like my soul’s not quite stuck to my body properly and at any moment my ghost might accidentally pop out of my body like an ectoplasmic wardrobe malfunction.
Complete with an eerie floaty feeling in my head. But that’s more or less a constant these day. more’s the pity.
Even when I am lying down and completely still, it feels like part of my head is floating around like a lazy balloon.
Yet another of those things I should probably tell someone about. There’s so many.
Today’s been quiet. Had Wound Care in the morning, which was quite weird given that I was just there two days ago, on Saturday.
And I won’t be back until next Saturday. Most peculiar, mama.
Oh well, nobody ever said scheduling was easy. I don’t envy Megan, the gal who handles that at the Community Care Clinic where I get my Wound Care, her job.
Finding it hard to say focused. My mind wants to ramble. Wander around and see what there is to see, without any strings, like the balloon it is right now.
Oh well, soon I will be Dun Bloggan and able to slip away under the cover of night and resume my important self-imposed mission to play video games and nap until I die for very stupid and/or tragic reasons.
He died of not being able to adult in a situation with a great need for adulting.
He died of being too sad to live. Also diabetes.
He died by drowning in his own inner quagmire. It was brutal. It took years.
He died of making wordcount.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.