Up from the pit

Just woke up. Feel like used shit. So, par for the course.

So this is Christmas. Big frigging deal. The way I feel right now, I kind of wish it was just another ordinary day. I just want to hide in sleep until the whole thing is over and I can go back to my usual pathetic existence as the world’s smartest barnacle, stuck to some rock somewhere, taking in nutrients and putting out BS without making the slightlest impact on the world.

In other words, I don’t feel very good.

As is tradition, I will be having dinner with Joe’s parents tonight. Every year, they are kind enough to invite me to Christmas dinner, and I always have a good time.

Right now, however, I am terrified/. This is what I have to go through every time I have to go places and do things, and of course, the more novel the setting,m the more terrified I am,

SO every single time, I have to overcome this clutching panic that makes me want to run and hide and that makes me feel like this upcoming exposure is a hostile and brutal act, even if I know, intellectually, that I will enjoy it.

Good thing there will be liquor. It helps.

Because I know that no matter how I seem on the inside, I will be panicking on the inside for the first little while at least. Perhaps that is what I am dreading, on a deep level. Sure, I know I will chill out eventually and have a good time, but at first, I will be freaking out, and there isn’t a goddamned thing I can do about it.

And so I cling to my rock and shout “no no no!” until I am hoarse, and end up having to drag myself kicking and screaming into something I will enjoy once I get over myself.

It’s not easy to be me.

I wish I could just… heal. Free myself of all my toxins and wake up purged and clean and free of all the pollution and putrid clinging fog that makes my life so hard. It would be worth going through a period of pain and grossness and sickening horror if it meantthat at the end of it all, I was clean.

I haven’t felt truly clean in so long that it would be bliss. Like that euphoric feels you get when the fever breaks and you suddenly feel SO much better that you just lay there with a big dumb grin on your face, blissed out.

If they could sell that feeling in a bottle, they would make a billion dollars.

Oh right, they do, and it’s called Oxycontin. And there’s a lot of drawbacks.

Because life can never just give you happiness or even pleasure without exacting some kind of revenge in the form of side effects.

Not even sex can provide you with blessed release without taking its toll one way or another. You can never truly get ahead.

It’s still pretty nice, though. Or so I have heard.

That’s another lovely thing going wrong with me lately. I can’t “get there”. Every time I try to masturbate, there comes a moment when the engine suddenly cuts out and I end up giving up on the whole thing because the energy is gone and I lose all interest in the act, and end up frustrated and irritated and wishing I was healthy.

Or at least functional.

I feel so weak and helpless. Like there is nothing solid in my psyche any more. No dry land. No water, even. Just me floating in outer space, unable to generate any thrust, everything in me spilling out to form a putrid cload around me while I choke on my own fumes and squirm in pain.

The urge to turn inwards and block out reality and all its painful stimulations is strong in me right now.

Thjat’s a big part of why I want to sleep so much. Sleep is like death but without the commitment. It’s the furthest from reality I can get while alive.

It’s that, or Skyrim, which at least keeps my mind busy and thus keeps the icy violations of depression’s fetid fingers from tearing my mind apart for a while.

Idle minds are depression’s playground, after all.

Although who knows. Maybe this mental marathon of mind is both the cause and the treatment of my issues. Maybe what I really need is to spend some time away from the computer and its diverse amusements so my mind can xclear itself and get down to some serious healing without this constant mental smorgasbord to digest.

I wish I knew someone with a nice little cabin somewhere in the interior of BC where I could escape for a while with nothing but books and a computer to write on. One with absolutely nothing on it but a simple word processor.

That way, there would be nothing for me to do but read and write. I could just write and write and write until I catch up with the backlog and reach some kind of equilibrium between my interbnal pressures and the world outside my head.

Of course, from a simplistic point of  view, I could do all that right now.

But it’s not that easy. Not when I habve access to my drug of choice – video games, Skyrim in particular – in unlimited amounts right at my fingertips.

As it sits right now, I know that I can go to Skyrim and make time pass more or less pain free whenever I feel like it. And I have far too much of the escapist in me to be able to resist that for very long.

My usual maximum time without the treat in my mouth is about how long it takes for me to write one of these blog entries.

And thank goodness for them, because without these – and you, gentle reader – I would be sompletely trapped in my own mind.

And that would truly be Hell.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.




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