(Dear friends : Don’t worry about the admittedly very scary words I wrote below. Like I have said before, sometimes I just have to get all the bad stuff out of my head so that I can think, and that’s what I did below. I’m not suicidal, I am not going to hurt myself, and the following is, ironically, a sign that I am really getting in touch with my emotions now, and that’s a very good thing. Thinking got me here… feeling will get me out again. )
And it’s exactly 3 months till I am. So I figure I’d better start working on this issue NOW.
The bitter truth of it is that I don’t want to face a half-century of life without having done a god damned thing with myself.
I have wasted my life playing video games in this shitty little cave of mine and I honestly can’t see that changing any time soon so why do I even fucking bother.
The whole thing makes me want to just lay in bed till I die.
Everything seems so god damned pointless to me. Why continue to dog-paddle through life when all I have to look forward to is a slow painful slide into greater and greater levels of disability and misery as I smile and laugh my way into the grave?
I mean, here I am, brain the size of a planet…
Oh, but where there’s life there’s hope, cry the voices of sanity. As long as you stay alive and keep trying, there’s a chance you will finally become mentally well!
And I can’t argue against that. Anything is possible.
But you see, I’ve done a very foolish thing over the years.
I told myself that if I hadn’t made anything of myself before I turned fifty, I’d kill myself.
The idea was that this would give me a good reason to get my ass in gear and finally start living life instead of merely surviving it.
Because if fear of death doesn’t motivate you, nothing will! Right?
Yeah. About that.
I guess nothing will, then. Death doesn’t scare me. At least then this whole long farce of a life will be over and I will finally be somewhere safe.
Pain scares me. Debility scares me. Losing my faculties scares me.
But death? I won’t even be here for it.
I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to live a life of joy and happiness where I look forward to every moment I spend on God’s green Earth because I have finally, at long last, gotten the fuck over myself and learned to embrace life.
But that seems like such a distant possibility. I can imagine it but I can’t feel it. It’s not really real to me at all.
I can make it through the day but I can’t make myself happy. I can make progress in a video game but I can’t make myself make something of myself. I can make the words flow through my fingers and onto the page but I can’t make them mean anything.
And it’s so hard to be patient when you have waited for so long. Deep down I know that I can get better but I get so bitter and frustrated sometimes that I feel like I want to scream my fucking lungs out.
I’ve so damned cold for so damned long now that sometimes I wish the cold would just finish the job and kill me already.
Maybe my next life will be better. Maybe not,
But at least this one would finally be over.
More after the break.
Think less, do more!
That’s easier said than done, but then again, isn’t everything?
Been thinking about my whole approach to life and how I feel about it.
I tackle life “head first”, in the sense that, as I have said before, my basic approach to everything is to apply an overwhelming amount of mental force to it.
That’s just how the cookie crumples when you’ve got brains like mine. Had I been born big and strong and fast instead of big and smart and adorable, and I might have been the sort of person that tried to do everything through brute force.
But the thing about natural talent is that it inherently leads you to focus narrowly on what you are good at. If someone is, say, a naturally gifted pianist, if you take the obvious route you are going to be spending a whole lot of time playing the piano and nobody is going to care whether you’re a well rounded person who is equipped to handle life outside the conservatory.
And I have hyper focused on the world of the mind for my entire life, very much to the detriment of everything else in life.
You know, little things like whether or not I can cope with life, whether I have the slightest idea how to make myself happy, or know anything at all about the world outside this brightly lit surgical theater I call a mind.
And there’s a lot of it out there. To think that for most of my life I went around thinking this marvelous mind of mind encompassed all of life, and there was nothing it couldn’t do because hey, it understood more about how everything works than everyone else.
And it does encompass a lot. And I do understand things nobody else does. It really is an extraordinary instrument of analysis.
But who gives a shit?
Sure, the view is great from way up here, but I am fucking freezing to death and half dead from the lack of oxygen.
Olympian heights suck, is what I am saying.
And yet, what am I doing about it? Talking about it. Thinking about it. Trying to solve my emotional problems with logical analysis.
I guess you have to use whatever you’ve already got to get to where you want to go and I know how to think about things.
But trust me, gentle readers, all this verbalization is but the tip of the iceberg and things of emotional weight and substance are happening under the surface of the sea.
My whole journey to cram as much meaning to every word that I can makes sense to me now. My emotions are trying to escape confinement and get expressed the only way open to them : my words.
All I can say is that I am all for this and hope that by writing my little words every day, I will complete this magical transformation and find my way home at last.
Go, feelings, go!
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.