I don’t think I can do this any more.

This life of mine, I mean. I can’t stand it. Maybe it took being away from it for five days when I was in the hospital for me to be able to truly see it clearly, but it is clear as day to me now that I hate my frigging life.

It’s so stupid. So inane. All these days just marking time till the day I die. All the video games and Facebook and questionable dietary decisions. None of it appeals to me any more. And the prospect of going on this way for the rest of my life sickens me.

I live in filth because I never clean anything. This whole room is a garbage pit. Everywhere I look, there’s garbage, dust, and disarray. It’s a shit pile, and it makes me depressed just to look at it.

So what is my brilliant solution? Just don’t look at it! Just stay laser focused in on the computer screen and push the fact that I live in dirt out of my mind.

I am very, very good at pushing things out of my mind.

My bed is completely disgusting. No sheet on it, just the mattress cover that has been soaking up my sleep sweat for over a decade. The only bedding is my equally filthy and disgusting comforter. It hasn’t been washed in years.

So I sleep stewing in my own juices. Isn’t that lovely. You would think that this would inspire me to clean shit up.

But we all know it’s not that easy, don’t we? Because depression.

I never vaccuum, so the air is filthy with dust. It’s a wonder I don’t cough up dust bunnies on a regular basis. That has to be just brutal on my health.

And yet, here I sit, doing absolutely nothing about it. Because depression. Because depression blocks the pathways between motivation and action. So it doesn’t matter how much reason I have to do something.

The terror deep inside me keeps that from happening. It’s a terror that freezes everything inside me until its nothing but dead tissue.

Cause of death : frostbite and freezer burn.

My life has no direction. I try to row towards my goals when I can, but most of the time I just helplessly drift along towards a lonely and pointless grave where the epitaph will read : “Here lies Michael Bertrand. He had potential. ”

And I do. I have tons of it.

But depression keeps getting in the way.

If it wasn’t for my depression, there would be nothing keeping me from resigning myself to a few afternoons’ hard work cleaning up my room and putting it into a state that does not, in fact, require me to completely ignore my horrid surroundings in order to keep from wanting to jump out of the window, screaming.

What a radical notion. And quite brilliant. Gosh, I really do have potential!

Too bad it doesn’t mean jack shit. Because depression.

I feel so trapped. Like there is no way out of my terrible situation. I hate my stupid fucking life and yet I don’t feel like I have the power to change it.

The only solution, in such a situation, is to keep my mind unfocused and consciousness wrapped up in my distractions so that I don’t tbhink about how much I can’t stand my life. I just keep myself distracted, entertained, and utterly passive.

When escape is impossible, functional despair is the only solution. Give up. Don’t think about it. Keep your mind busy. Stay out of life’s way. Cling.

Don’t look around. Don’t think about my life. Don’t examine anything. Remain intellectual and detached about everything, and congratulate myself on how gosh darn smart I am and how I am totally going to do something amazing some day.

You know. When the Department of Genius finally gets around to knocking down my door and dragging me off to a fabulous career with an amazing lifestyle just for being my ever so special and unique snowflake self.

And all without me having to do anything! No effort invested, no risks taken, not even the tiniest step away from my teeny tiny comfort zone needed.

Golly, it’s a miracle!

Well that’s not going to fucking happen. If I am to have a life I can at least stand the sight of, it will have to be by the dint of my own efforts.

Which means I am fucked. Most of the time, anyhow. I just plain don’t feel strong enough to do it all myself. I lack the internal integrity.

The slightest application of thrust, and I fall apart.

So now what? What the fuck do I do with this information? Yup, I hate my life. This is not new. Recent events have simply added clarity to the whole thing.

And the truth is, I have no plan, as such. I can talk about trying to get work on Upwork but that’s iffy with my health being so fucked up.  I never know how much wherewithal I will have in order to get shit done.

It really makes me long for a regular gig instead of this freelance bullshit. If I had a regular gig, I could gather and dole out my energies rationally and I would not be so subject to the whims of my fucking chemicals.

But how woyuld I even find such a gig? Let alone land it?

I feel so helpless and isolated in the world. Abandoned. Developmentally arrested at far too young an age to be able to cope with adult reality without a hell of a lot of help.

More help than one can reasonably expect from the world, to be honest.

So I dunno. Maybe this is one of those cases when I just have to let the frustration build until it forces new pathways to open in my mind.

Or maybe I will finally go just plain nuts and forget about all this reality crap.

I have no idea.

But I do know this : something, somewhere, has to give.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.