Time for another go at the question of what the fuck I am doing with my life and what the ENORMOUS fuck I want to be doing with it.

It’s easy to say what I want to be doing with it. Writing for TV. Took a whole degree in it and everything. Said degree means I am actually qualified to do it.

But that doesn’t mean shit because of all the stuff between that dream gig and me that I am currently unable to overcome.

What I am doing, of course, is watching the sands of my hourglass trickle away while I spend all the precious seconds of my life playing fucking video games.

And I can’t stop. And not just because I am addicted to them and crave them when I am away from them. That’s certainly bad but it’s not the true enforcement mechanism of the addiction and it’s not the real reason I can’t stop.

The real reason I can’t stop is that if I did, I would have to go back to trying to figure out what the fuck to do with my time, and the thought of that terrifies me.

See, the addiction to video games has saved me from having to face the yawning existential void of wondering what the fuck to do. I don’t have to face the infinite corridor with infinite doors any more. I know exactly what I will be doing with my time.

Playing fucking video games.

Without that, I am lost. I lost what decision making chutzpah I had when the addiction took over, and now all I can do is sit in front of this computer and play Dragon Age Origins and Eternal all goddamned day while get older and sicker and closer to death.

Of course, there’s lots of things I could be doing. That’s the problem. I have the freedom to do whatever I want, and I don’t even know what that is. I have no specific direction I am looking to go in, just dreams of jobs I would love to have but don’t know how to get – or worse, I know how to get but I am not capable of the steps involved.

It’s easier to pretend not to know. Better to be confused than cowardly.

It all comes back to the id, doesn’t it? Whatever it is that lets people overcome indecision, choose a course of action, then pursue it with vigor and determination lies somewhere in the deep dark forest of my ill used id, and I won’t be able to escape the gravity well of my tiny cell until I have a better connection with it.

The id is the engine. The ego is merely the driver.

At least my discontent with my life as it is has been growing stronger lately. That’s a good sign. That frustration with my live as it is right now is the only force within me capable of actually making me do shit instead of just thinking of things I could do then putting them in my “wouldn’t that be nice” file and forgetting all about them.

Because to do something about them means actually having to do something, and I am far too scared to do much of anything at all.

Doing things is for people who do not constantly feel like they are dangling over the edge of insanity and mental oblivion, barely hanging on by their fingertips, with their guts hanging out of the incision they used when they took his heart away.

Folks say it’s a nice heart, through. I’ve heard good things about it.

It’s this constant gnawing insecurity that makes me freak out like a cornered fox in a fox hunt at the very thought of doing things to improve my life. Between the insecuity and the thousands of shrieking possibilities that raise their voice like a satanic chorus every time I try to decide what to do, it’s no wonder that I remain immobile.

School was great because it provided structure for me. I didn’t have to decide what to do. School told me what to do. It was all so clear and easy to understand. And because I had that kind of structure, I could enjoy the time I had left over from school stuff as genuine leisure time and not this never ending wasteland of time and ennui.

But I still don’t want to go back to school. I’d feel like a total idiot if I did. I have a degree (sort of). I am trained for a job. I should be pursuing that job.

And the odds are that if I went to school and got another something in something, I would still be unable to pursue a career in it for the same reasons I can’t pusue the one I am actually qualified for.

It wouldn’t change anything. Just make things even more futile.

There is no getting around it. This cell of mine is made entirely of my mental illness, and there is no escape until I am a great deal more sane.

I have come a very long way, but there is so much further to go.

What is worse is that there is no clear path to sanity. It’s not like an infection, where you just do what the doctor says and get better over time.

There are no antibiotics for insanity.

All I can do is keep taking my meds and keep going to therapy and keep writing away my feelings on this blog and hope that, some day, enough of the glacier that rests squarely atop my heart will have melted to let me start up my engine and live again.

I’ve died so many times, in so many ways, from so many things over the years. Had my heart crushed in ways I didn’t even understand by people who bore me no ill will but had no idea what their words and emotions could do to me.

It’s the callous, not the malice, that has hurt me the most.

That’s why I have led such a cold, cold life.

I don’t even know how to ask to be let in any more.

All I can do is look in from the outside. And sigh.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.