That’s how I feel right now. Like I am all alone, sitting on the edge of a steep cliff in some remote and unreachable part of the world, not looking down but looking out towards the horizon, legs dangling idly.

I have no desire to jump or fal. I feel a certain degree of vertigo, but to be quite honest that’s likely a product of sinus fluid messing with my inner ear rather than any desire to dash myself to pieces on the rocks below.

In fact, vertigo aside, I feel quite comfortable here. I suppose that’s quite insane of me, to feel content while sitting o the edge of oblivion like this.

But I’d rather be crazy and happy than miserably sane any day.

As for why this is relaxing to me, I couldn’t tell you precisely. All I can say is that it somehow equalizes some kind of pressure inside my mind in such a way that I can find some peace of mind.

I’m such a weird guy.

While I am up here, I am contemplating the whole “support network” aspect of recovery from depression. It;s a subject I normally find too depressing and upsetting to ponder, for reasons that should become clear, but what the heck.

I am currently uniquely well positioned for a deep dive into any subject.

For those who don’t know, one of the things they say a depressive should have to aid with their recovery is a “support network” of people they can go to for help and/or talk to about their problems or whatever else they need.

My usual bitterly flippant response to this idea is to say, “look, if I had one of those, I probably wouldn’t be depressed in the first place. “

Ha ha ha. But the thing is, I totally do have a support network, actually. I have a lot of people who love me (both VR and RL) , many of whom would probably listen to me if I wanted to vent about my depression to them and be supportive and helpful and all those good things.

And I go to therapy once a week, so I have the more formal part of the network covered.

But none of that means a thing because I am not capable of accessing this network. In a very real sense, it might as well not be there, because there is something wrong with me that makes it nearly impossible for me to truly reach out for help.

I keep most everything to myself, and instead the world sees the bright, funny. sweethearted version I have constructed and like to pretend is the real me.

And it is. It’s just not all of me. It’s the part of the iceberg above the water, and if you didn’t know any better, you would think you are seeing the whole thing.

But you aren’t. For that matter, neither am I.

I can’t be the real me. The real me is unpleasant, negative, and endlessly dark. The real me is a bottomless pit full of shadows, nightmares, and predators who swim the shadows like sharks and can strike all the warmth from your heart with a glance.

Nobody wants to be around someone like that. Even very sweet, sensitive, caring people who really, really want to help me would soon pull back in terror and flee to save what little warmth they have life from the predation of my negation.

It’s just too fucking cold in here. is what I am saying.

And deep in the very heart of my miasma is a massive lump of pure, unfiltered, unfocused, ravenous hate.

Not hate for anything in particular. Hatred for everything. This is crystallized rage raised to the power of insanity, and it hates all of Creation and would destroy all if it could.

That’s the beast I carry with me in my soul. It’s the product of a lot of unprocessed and unexpressed rage turned inward and multiplied by the pain it inflicts on itself.

That’s what happens when, on a very deep level, you take it out on yourself. Pain = rage. Rage = attacking oneself. Attacking oneself = more pain.

Repeat until your fucking head explodes.

I normally avoid thinking about this subject because it brings out such bitterness and contempt in me and yet I have no just object for those feelings.

Because the truth is, if you are too fucked up to ask for help or make use of the help available to you, you are fucked. Period. Nobody can save you because nobody can enter your mind and live your life for you. They can’t make you ask for or accept their help and they can’t help you against your will either.

The problem is in your head, and you’re the only one in there, buddy. So it’s either recover enough to reach out for help or you are totally fucked.

I haven’t recovered enough to reach out. I am just too goddamned scared. That’s why I can only do it in this absurdly indirect form, via writing this blog.

By writing things here. I both keep them in a realm where I feel fairly safe – words – and lets me get things off my chest without having to ask anyone for anything or interrupt what anyone is doing or otherwise remind the universe of my existence.

I can just slip a piece of paper under the door and run like hell.

It’s such a bad problem that I don’t even show the real me to my therapist. He gets a less filtered version of me than others, but I have tested him with relatively small doses of my true darkness and it’s clear he isn’t strong enough to survive it either.

Nobody is. Maybe if someone had got to me when I was a lot younger, there might have been strong enough to face my evil, but it has had a long time to deepen its shadows and sharpen its claws and now it is all consuming.

It is so very, very hungry.

So yeah. Support networks. They are a lovely idea.

But they are not for me.

Guess I’ll just freeze to death in the dark then.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.