Feeling bloated and bleh at the moment. Depressed too, I suppose, but it’s the nihilistic form of depression on the low intensity setting, so it’s hard for me to find the energy to bother saying I am depressed,. It just seems like too much work.

Been thinking about the awfulness inside me today. It’s amazing how little it matters that I know that being sexually assaulted as a four year old was not my fault and did not make me a dirty and terrible thing nobody could love.

It’s how I feel, nevertheless. SOme part of me was soiled by the event and that has poisoned me for so long that I don’t know how to imagine myself as worthy and pure.

I mean, what would that even be like? What would be left of me? Who would I be?

And there is a sick comfort to being at the bottom. It means you are safe from falling. It means you are safe from disappointment too. The toxic truth is I have felt like a horrible thing for most of my life.

And not without cause, because I was treated like one.

Imagine being the kid that no one even wants to touch. The kid everyone dreads when people are picking partners for things in school. The social pariah that get mocked, bullied, and brutalized and even the adults think he deserves it.

Now imagine, at the same time, being the smartest kid your school has ever seen. The kid who tests off the scale for IQ and other mental skills. The kid who does his schoolwork with a contemptuous flair because it does not even begin to challenge him in the slightest.

The kid who is too socially clueless to understand how much that makes people hate his guts. Including his teachers. Getting better grades that people who have to work very hard to even pass. Showing zero deference to adults, treating them like equals. Making it very clear that he was cooperating voluntarily with the educational system and that at any moment, he might choose to withdraw that cooperation and there was nothing they could do about it.

I mean, who the fuck did I think I was?

One of the reasons for my feelings of toxicity, I think, is what I will call the “stagnant water” effect. My busted social antenna means that I do not have the kind of outlet for my emotions that a socially intact person has.

So it all stays with me instead, my self-pollution building up to septic levels with no sign of stopping. It’s like not being able to eliminate waste on a physical level.

I trust I need not be more specific than that.

Actually, it’s more like kidney disease of the soul. Our kidneys filter out toxins and then remove them from out bodies by releasing them into our urine.

But for my psyche, both the input and output valves are sluggish and clogged and not really up to the tasks of letting in what I need and getting rid of what I don’t.

So the same bad water recirculates endlessly except for these moments every day that I spend talking to you wonderful people, who give me the ablity to let some of the badness inside me out by writing this blog.

And the more I write, the more I can express with every word, and the better an outlet it becomes. For everything, not just the bad stuff.

Seems so strange that I am this wizard of words with all these powerful verbal skills and yet I still have a lot of trouble expressing my real emotions.

Maybe it’s because I am ashamed of them. I don’t know.

I have been trying to get off the depressive self-loathing carousel lately. The key is to somehow broker a peace deal between my disability and my ambition.

I want so bad to get out into the world and make something of myself, and yet the illness holds me back. The frustration this causes ends up venting internally (naturally) and turns into self loathing as I exoriate myself over what I “should” be doing.

Note that this valuation does not take what I could be doing into account.

And how crazy is that?

There’s a reason for it though. The problem is that I cannot accept that my depression limits my prospects in life. I absolutely must believe that things will get better for me some day and that I will be able to join the working world and get a real life when I am healthier.

If I stopped believing in that future, I would kill myself, because otherwise what is the fucking point of going on.

For ten, maybe twenty more years of this pathetic bullshit existence? Um, no thanks.

Come what may, I am getting out of this prison cell of a life. I can’t keep on living like this.

So some day, I will stop. One way or another.

And I know I might be self-sabotaging with this attitude. I acknowledge that, on paper at least, I might be better off giving up on my lofty dreams and, like my brother said, just trying to make some kind of life for myself.

But I can’t. Not yet, anyhow. I have to believe that there’s a key to this cage and if that keeps me from simply making it the nicest, safest, most comfortable cage I can, so be it.

My ambition may burn too hto for my own good but it also provides the only light I have in my life. I have to believe that one day I will be well and able to finally, finally, FINALLY become a real adult with a job and a husband and a home.

And possibly many, many cats.

Otherwise I might as well get the whole thing over with. Subtract myself from this world and by doing so making it a cleaner, healthier, happier place.

Or at least that is the heat of the meat
Of all those poisons I secrete.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.