… and deeper in… meh.

Still not feeling especially wonderful. I get the feeling that this feeling of desperation, frustration, irritation, and inchoate mindless rage is not going to go away any time soon. I am in this for the long haul, and it will continue until I either learn to focus it into activity and let it out that way, or until it cracks my mind open like a coconut and lets all my crazy out, leaving me a drooling barking lunatic who spends the rest of his life in a straightjacket to keep him from playing with himself in public.

And the way I feel right now, I could go either way, really.

I just want some fucking closure. Some progress. Some god damned relief.

I just want out.

I truly do hate my life. It feels wrong to say it, but I cannot deny the truth.

My life disgusts and depresses me. I am just a fat sack of shit living in my own mess and eking out a pathetic existence banging words into a blog read only by a few close friends (thank you, thank you, thank you!) and otherwise wasting his life away on video games and Internet chat while his health slowly deteriorates and the Grim Reaper patiently waits for this particular nonentity to die the early fat guy death so clearly preordained for him.

I look at all that, and I want to throw up. What a poignant waste of a life. Can’t someone help this man out of the pit and into the light?

The answer, of course, is “nope, and he can’t do it by himself either, so he’s basically screwed”.

It really strikes hard just what a horrible bitch of a disease depression is. The powers that be pay a lot of lip service to removing the stigma from mental illness, but from the other side of their mouths, they say “well, sure, if you can cancer or something you could, you know, prove exists, we would be moving heaven and earth to try to save you, but because your illness is invisible to sight and X-rays and we pretty much have to take your word for it that you have it, we all secretly think you are just a loser who should pull himself together and stop being such a pussy, and that is why we just give you some pills and then turn our back to you. ”

Not that I am bitter, or anything.

But basically, if you have an illness that makes it impossibly hard to ask for or otherwise seek help, and it’s not something people can see like a missing leg or even being blind, then you are screwed. Nobody knows you need help, and if they find out, they don’t really care. They can’t afford to care, because your problems are so huge they would crush a normal person.

You are a drowning fat person and no lifeguard dares try to save you, because you will clearly just drag them down with you.

And I am not sure I don’t agree.

My last therapy session was very rocky, as I mentioned before, and it brought up a lot of the fears I have about ever truly opening up to anyone, even a therapist.

My fear has been, for a long long time now, that if I really do open up to anyone, drop the containment field and expose them to the warp core of my madness, that my problems will simply open wide their starving jaws and devour that person alive. That the intensity of the heat and hard ration alone will annihilate them and leave nothing but ashes and greasy smoke and a stain.

Put less poetically, I have felt that if I open up to people, truly open up and not just present an edited and filtered version of myself, that anyone trying to help me, or even just like me, will find out what I am really like and be exposed to all the anger and pain and resentment and evil that I have suppressed all these years, and they will be so horrified and disgusted they will simply flee screaming into the night, never to return.

And my tussle with my therapist yesterday did not entirely convince me that this could not happen with him. I am pretty sure that my anger and bitterness and sarcasm (and tendency to nail people where it hurts with expertly aimed barbs when I am hurt) have somewhat alienated my therapist, and if I am not careful how I handle things from now on, he will be looking for an excuse to get rid of me as a patient, because I now frighten and disturb him.

And of course, being a therapist, he will try to make it seem like all he is interested in is what is best for me. You know, “clearly this is not working out, I clearly do not have what it takes to give you the therapy you clearly need, so I think it would be best for the both of us if you sought therapy from another provider… ”

Mark my words, it will come to that. He simply won’t be able to handle me, and will try to convince me to go, and when I completely fail to fall for that bullshit, he will come up with some bit of legalistic form shuffling bullshit to get rid of me somehow. Boot my sad ass out and slam the door shut behind me.

Because he can’t handle me. Not the real me. He probably can’t enter the Dead Zone, the Killing Fields, the Demon Twilight that exists in the heart of my mind and survive, and so he will flee, and I will lose the one chance at real therapy I have had this decade.

I don’t know if there is anything I could have done to stop this, either. Sooner or later, therapy is going to open up this part of me, and the therapist will have to deal with an angry, bitter me who has a lot of issues to work out that are not pleasant or pretty, and that angry bitter me will have all my arsenal of verbal, intellectual, and intuitive powers when it speaks the words of anger, and I don’t know if there is anyone anywhere who could take all that and come back for more.

And if that’s the case…. if there is little or no chance I can actually get therapy that works… then I feel I will end up going in a dark, angry, bitter direction that will not end well.

It would really suck to find out you have no choice but to be crazy.