I am the usual sort of miserable right now.
More specifically, I am groggy and disoriented and all the rest because I just woke up and my sleep apnea is still untreated.
It’s on the list of what is probably going to kill me before I am fifty.
The signs are all there. I am always getting weird random pains in random parts of my body, but primarily my hands and feet. That’s a sure sign that my diabetes is killing the fuck out of my nervous system.
Just yesterday, I got this searing pain on the side of my thumb. And when I say “searing”, I am not describing the intensity of the pain.
I mean it literally felt like the area in question had been burned. Like someone had touched it with a lit cigarette.
I swore a bunch.
So yeah. Diabetic neuropathy, y’all.
It’s fucking with my circulation too. I’ve felt my veins clog and then unclog. That will give me a heart attack or a stroke or something similar eventually.
Plus there’s my untreated umbilical hernia, the untreated oozing spot on my scalp, the untreated damage to my knees, the wound on my leg that’s still oozing, oh and, of course, I’m still insane.
And that’s just a sampling of my problems. I am sure there’s a lot more.
And none of it is motivating me to do anything about it. Motivation dies in me before it ever has a chance to move me. The messages are there somewhere, but they are kept from my emotional core by the thick wall of ice around my heart.
Might as will be throwing pebbles at a battleship.
Most of the time, when we talk about depression killing people, it’s by suicide.
But it can kill you in so many ways, including, in my case, by making you unable to take care of yourself properly.
All of my health issues are treatable.
Few of them are actually being treated, and even then, only partly.
The only future I can see for myself is one where I end up in the hospital again and all the responsibility for my care goes to them and I once again have a life where I just have to go where I am told and do what I am told to do.
Would be nice to be relieved of the responsibilty for myself for a while. It’s a burden I clearly am not healthy enough to bear.
And I don’t really hate myself for that. I used to, but not any more. Now it just seems tragic. Here I am, brain the size of a planet, and massively gifted, and it doesn’t matter because I am too sick to do anything with it and am going to die young.
And all I can do is keep running down the clock playing video games and waiting for the Big Thing to happen that will either kill me or cripple me somehow.
Maybe then I will wake up and live.
Until then, I will sleepwalk to my grave.
More after the break.
Been pondering innocence again.
Quick recap : I pooh-poohed the idea of innocence for a long time, telling myself it was just another word for ignorance and ignorance is nothing to value or preserve.
Sour grapes, all the way. Deep down I knew I had lost mine to a stranger’s cock when I was four years old, and tried to convince myself that I hadn’t lost anything valuable.
There is an element of tragic yet noble futility in that. Very Gallic.
I felt the same way about nostalgia for a long time. I figured that something that might cause me to think my rotten childhood were the best times of my life was suspect at best and a form of lunacy at worst.
And you know what? I still don’t miss my childhood. Not one bit. I have zero nostalgia for it. It was miserable and I spent most of it terrified, scared, or lonely.
Sometimes all three.
Nostagia, however, cannot be restrained by mere reason. So I have experience the emotion, sometimes with overwhelming force.
It just hasn’t changed my mind about those times. I see something from my childhood and I feel nostagia, but it doesn’t make me think things were better then.
Because they weren’t. And nothing can change that. I was an extremely unhappy child in total social isolation, with no friends, no support from the teachers, no support or attention at home either, and only TV and reading to keep me company.
It is an extremely bad way to grow up. I missed so many of the things that are supposed to spark emotional and social growth.
As a result, my development was highly unbalanced. It all went into my intellect. I fed my mind almost constantly, and hence, it grew to gargantuan size.
So big it frightens me, to be honest. So much power. So much responsibility.
But everything else is puny and underdeveloped. I am like one of those aliens with the huge brain and only vestigial bodies from science fiction.
Only without the badass mental superpowers.
That I know of.
No wonder I feel so weak sometimes. I have this enormous mind to support without having the spiritual and emotional resources I need to do so,.
No wonder it’s all I can do to make it through the day most of the time.
And it’s so frustrating. I want off this sad little island I call my “life”. I could be doing amazing things in the world and truly actualizing the fuck out of myself in the process if I was not trapped on this little island by my mental illness.
Somewhere in me, not too far from the surface, is an ambitious yet practical dreamer ready to take on the world and use his charm, his talent, and his big ol brain to conquer it and make it recognize just what a superb being he is.
All he wants is to escape this island prison of mine.
And he’s very tired of waiting.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.