Had another useless fucking therapy session today.
He can’t handle my depression, Nobody can, I am simply too much for this stinking fragile world. I am a supernova in a world of sparks and there is not a human being alive who can handle my incandesence.
Doctor Costin has nothing to offer me, when it comes down to it. When I am letting my depression show to him, he gets panicky and falls back on therapist tricks like “What do you think I should be telling you?”
Bitch, if I knew that. I wouldn’t be talking to you. Quit playing defense. You sound like someone trying to talk down a violent patient, not someone who is trying to help.
And do you have any idea how depressing and discouraging it is to finally get the point where I can reveal a large proportion of my true deep dark feeling with you only to find out you cannot god damned handle it? At all?
It gives me nihilistic thoughts.
I can’t even imagine another way out for me. Everything is hell. I can’t stand living the way I do and yet I can’t imagine changing it either.
The dreams of escape are powerful in me now. Dreams of running away, Of disappearing off the face of the planet, leaving this life behind entirely, and going to some obscure location jut left of the middle of nowhere where nobody knows me and I can start over and maybe make some kind of a life for myself.
Goodbye friends. Goodbye family. Goodbye everyone who knows me. I’m sorry it came to this and I really wish I didn’t have to put you through so much pain. I wish I was a stronger person, the kind who can just pull himself up by his own bootstraps and start over again in some less radical away and be a real person for a change.
But the person you knew was never more than shadows and reflections anyhow. Smoke and mirrors, images and fog, a lifelike simulation of a real human being.
The real truth is that I’m not anybody, Just the pale echo of a joke. One that was never funny in the first place. A bizarre mutant mind with powers beyond the ken of mortal man but who really has no place here on planet Earth.
I wish I could be so deluded as to think I was an alien. Some sort of big brained alien accidentally stranded on Earth and that even now, somewhere in the galaxy, my real parents are frantically searching for their misplaced child.
It’s a nice idea. But I know the truth. I’m just another jumped up monkey like all the rest of us. I just happen to have a brain the size of a (metaphorical) planet with vastly inadequate outlets for my titanic energies, and a head full of bad wiring that turns all that energy into sel-directed rage and depression and paranoia.
A monkey, yes, but a very badly programmed one.
And I am, as usual, all alone in trying to deal with all my issues. Nobody can help, no matter how much they love me or how bad then want to or whatever.
I am a very lonely giant, and it makes me feel quite small.
More after the break.
The eternal gap
The one between me and other people, that is. I have been thinking about that gap a lot lately and I have come to the conclusion that it is insurmountable.
Or at the very least. I can’t conceive of it disappearing. Or of being happy with someone being closer to me than that. In the heart of all my layers of emotional insulation lies a chamber which is my sanctum santorum , my Holy of Holies, my chamber inviolate, and absolutely nothing and nobody is allowed inside.
In the chamber lies a vast and terrible darkness that stretches out to every horizon in an infinite gulf of menacing void.
And in the exact center of that void lies a castle made of hard, unyielding ice.
And in the middle of that castle is a room. The room is tiny but an expert deployment of television screens and mirrors disguises this fact and makes it seem as if the chamber is spacious and accommodating.
It is not. It is spartan and bare. The furniture is ugly and plain and entirely out of keeping with the sweeping majesty of the rest of the castle.
It is also the only thing in the castle you have seen that is not made of ice.
In this room on a squat and bare stool squats the wizard you all know. A big fat bearded fellow, quite slovenly in appearance, who stares blankly into the monitor of his computer as strings of bizarre symbols and strange glyphs stream over it.
He is nude. The cold does not appear to bother him.
This seems strange but comprehendible to you, But then he suddenly notices you and looks up, and you get a glimpse of the world behind his eyes.
What you see is a dark and terrible void that makes the one outside the castle, infinite though it may be, seem like a mere puff of smoke in the forest fire of his mind.
And in the center of that void is a crying child, a fear-crazed fox, and an assassin with cold dark eyes who seems to be waiting for something.
You wisely avoid looking into the assassin’s eyes.
Well that happened.
When I get hold of a metaphor, I really run with it.
Possibly this means I should be writing poetry, but that has always seemed like a losing proposition to me, The number of actually professional poets in the world, as in that’s their only job and they make a living at it, is probably around 50.
I could probably make a splash in the poetry world with the intensity of my imagery and the evocative power of my words.
But meh. The prospect sickens nevertheless.
Guess I will keep turning this blog into poetic prose when the mood strikes me.
Thank you all for putting up with that.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.