Lately, I have been feeling like I am going down, down, down. No end in sight. No changes of speed. No thought of stopping the process. Just the feeling of a slow, calm, and easy death,.

The problem is, I’m enjoying it.

Dunno what that means, but it can’t be good. It’s like a slow and stately suicide where all I hve to do is sit back and relax and enjoy the show. And it comes with a rather sick sense of relief, as though part of me is saying, “I’m sure glad THAT is over and done with. “

“That”, of course, being my life.

A quick reminder : this is all metaphorical, I don’t think I am literally dying.

That said : death is the ultimate, final escape for us escapists. The last word in running away from our problems instead of facing them. The definitive way to remain untouched.

I’ve thought a lot about remaining untouched lately. Of going to where they can’t get to you. Of always dancing out of the way of their touch and remaining pure unto yourself.

It’s not a very good life strategy.

I wish I could explain what I mean by “untouched” in this context. Part of it is empathy based – being able to avoid the mental touch of others which can seem very invasive to those of us who experience the feelings of others very keenly, and who don’t necessarily have the strongest sense of our own identity as a result.

There’s always been a lot of people in my head, only one of which was me.

And this has its benefits. It gives me deep insight into the deep emotional lives of others. Every person I interact with leaves an impression behind and on a deep level, I process that impression and turn it into an understanding of that person and where they are coming from.

It all gets added to my deep model of humanity, which I can consult freely. This then informs my humanitarian impulses because the more you know about people, the harder it is to hate them because you understand their struggles and know that they are just as much of a bewildered monkey as you are, no matter how they may seem within the confines of social reality.

And once more, I have wandered away from myself and into cerebral pontification.

If only there was a WordPress plugin to detect THAT.

I will drag myself back to the point now.

When you have my kind of empathy, it can be hard to get some alone time, so to speak. I think this fuels my tendency to isolate myself. I can only truly calm down if I am completely alone both inside and outside my overstrained cerebrum. What company I do get tends to be via the moderating medium of the Internet, which vastly reduces the amount of psychosocial stimulation I get from people

.
Plus, I pretend to be an anthropomorphic fox. That helps too.

Anything to take me away from myself. That’s a form of escapism too. I hate being me and which I could be someone else. Things which occupy my mind fully let me forget that, and that’s a big part of what makes me so addicted to video games.
I get to be someone other than myself there too.

And this deep and primal self-loathing is not based on any particular fact or memory. It’s deeper than that. Like a lot of survivors of child sexual abuse, I carry with me a profound sense of disgust for myself and view myself as a disgusting, dirty, violated thing that reeks of corruption and unworthiness.

We end up feeling tainted and toxic, even though we are the victims and it’s our assailants who should feel totally worthless, not us.

But if someone dumps a bucket of shit on your head, it doesn’t matter that it is their fault and not yours. You still feel dirty and disgusting.

And my incident happened when I was a preschooler, so its effects went very deep. I think that might be why I got so good at concealing who I really am. So good that I can even fool myself sometimes.

And it’s why I have a deep down terror of people really getting to know me. If they did, they would see what a horrible shit-monster I am and they would run away forever.
It’s much safer to present the world with an illusion. One I can control. And like any good liar, I keep my illusion as close to the truth as possible so I attract the minimum amount of suspicion.

I could be wrong. Maybe it’s the projection that is the real me and the filthy and unworthy scared little critter inside me that is the illusion. I know I have done nothing to deserve this feeling of profound toxicity and the painful self-rejection that it engenders.
Nobody can be healthy with that level of self-hate. No wonder I don’t like being myself.

Or maybe that filthy little beast is the real me, but all it needs is someone to patiently and carefully and gently clean it up, and give it a hug, and tell it that it’s a good little beastie and that the dirt was never truly part of it and that it is loved and accepted and wonderful.

I’d like to be that person for myself. The ultimate pet groomer. The kindly kindergarten teacher I never had. The adult willing to take me on despite my troubles that I never found. The gentle but firm parent I needed so badly to give me both comfort and guidance.

But I don’t know if I can do it. I know that I will need to tackle that sense of being inherently horrible in order to do so. Otherwise I will not be able to generate the energy to do it. The deep conflict of self-rejection takes up too much energy for that.

It’s like I have a swamp inside me that needs draining,

And I’ve lost the keys to the pump.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.