Had a pretty bad attack of “i hate my life/why do I do anything/ I mean what is the fucking point/fuck everybody including me” spot rage after waking up from a nap earlier, and so I figure it is time for another negativity dump.

Sorry about this folks. I promise to be more entertaining tomorrow. But today, I vent.

Sometimes I just can’t see the point of life. My life, anyways. I feel like absolutely nothing I do matters, like I am just ticking off days till obesity kills me. My life just slips through my fingers like grains of sand and time is running out a little bit every day.

But still, the stasis remains. I truly feel like I am paralyzed somewhere deep inside. Some overactive and maladaptive defense mechanism I developed as a young child just keeps shooting my willpower and even by basic desires full of ice cold Novocaine and so every day, every week, and every year ends up being the same old thing : me wasting my life just fucking around and entertaining myself all the time.

It makes me feel like I am not even really here. The existential reality of my existence is so threadbare and fake. It’s all just mindless mental stimulation whose only purpose is to distract me from my crumbling, decaying life.

Like a junkie, like any addict, the addiction causes my life to fall apart while also shielding me from the emotions that would bring about some kind of change. My addictions are food, sleep, video games, and the Internet, but the basic principal is the same.

I can always count on my addictions to save me from the horrors they create. Or rather, the horror.

And I can’t even figure out how much of this is my fault. I know the proper thing would be to just say to myself that I am a seriously ill person who will recover at his own pace and I just have to be patient and make it through the day however I can.

That is totally the emotional state to be desired. But I am SO not there yet. A deep part of me really wants to go out into the world, seeking experience and engagement and, most of all, solid freaking reality. My world is far, far too virtual, and the thing about virtual experiences is that they do not make you feel more real. Instead, they reinforce my feeling of unreality. Real life has inputs for all five senses and, best of all, is still there, solid and real and waiting, whether or not you keep believing in it.

It doesn’t require a constant investment of mental energy like a product of my imagination does. I don’t have to worry that I will forget something and it will stop existing, or that without constant mental vigilance, the slender cord that connects me to reality will snap and I will be lost forever in the dark and burning hell of my own mind.

The world is real. And I am part of the world. I partake of its reality, no less so than the stones of the ground or the birds in the trees. I am real. I am REAL.

I think that is something I need to remind myself of nearly every waking moment. No matter what my fucked up life and my fucked up brain chemistry tells me, I am just as real as the stars in the skies or the people in my life. I can’t let my terror of disconnection twist me into thinking I am in danger in a way that makes no rational sense whatsoever.

I mean, no matter what happens in my head, I will still be here. In reality. The Real World. Solid, dependable reality.

And as of my realizing that my demons are my employees, I know that I can leave the paralysis behind and walk away from my cell any time I want. And that is real progress, and I treasure it.

But it didn’t make things any easier for me, not yet anyhow. Now I have to decide when I will stick my head out of my burrow and sniff the wind, maybe even set a paw or two outside.

I keep telling myself that it is not like I have to leave it all behind for good. This is not an “all or nothing” kind of situation. It can be like the classic exposure therapy for the treatment of phobias. I can expose myself to the world (so to speak) a little bit at a time, and only increase the dosage when I am fully acclimated.

That makes all the sense in the world. But that is just not how it works around here.

I guess my desire to go roam has been frustrated by my inner jailers for so long that when I imagine leaving my cell, it is for good. I want to not just leave the prison, I want to burn it the fuck down so I can never, ever go back.

This precludes a moderate, measured solution. At least, for now it does. I have these fantasies of just leaving my life behind and never coming back. Just… pack my bags and take off in a random direction and not stop going till I find a friendly place where nobody knows me and I can start my life all over again.

But that would be horribly unfair and cruel to the people who know me in this version of my life. Leave them without a clue as to what happened to me? That would be worse than faking my own death.

So that’s not an option. And I know there are a million moderate rational options in between “doing absolutely nothing” and “disappearing act”, but none of them appeal to me.

I don’t want to be rational and sensible any more.

I want to be free.

And maybe, for once, alone in my own mind.

Talk to you tomorrow, folks!