I'm not exactly sure what triggers these moments, but lately I've succumbed to sitting alone in complete silence. Thinking.
About the past, about the future, but getting nowhere. The boundaries placed around me are real and imagined, yet I no longer really know the difference. Hatred for myself consumes me like a fire burning within my own mind, and the fleeting moments of satisfaction only serve to raise me up higher for an inevitable fall back to reality. My problems are no different than most; we all struggle, I know that. But mine are mine, so how dare anyone mute their importance when it's all I have? I continually draw in others as dressing for my wounds, but if they fall off too easily I am upset at my exposure; if they stick too long it becomes painful to tear them away.
The ever-present words of encouragement are easy to come by; I may not have many friends, but the ones I do have are invaluable to me because they still attempt to keep my head above water, even when I want to breathe underneath the surface and face the consequences. This ebb and flow of overwhelming hopelessness is nothing new, but it is getting old. I like to pretend everything is ok, even when it isn't, and that will never change. It is not the responsibility of others to keep my spirits lifted just to have them beaten back down to where they belong when they're gone. Why should anyone have to babysit my ego when it's my responsibility to keep it checked in the first place?
I guess in some way we all feel like this; but when I'm sitting here all alone, with nothing else except a way to jot down these thoughts, there's no use in denying how I feel. Don't you sit there and pity me through your screen, I don't have any use for that. Nothing makes the pain go away. Not even thinking.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
It's been 271 days since I last posted; the few people that read this probably have forgotten it even exists, which isn't all bad I guess. This little spot is a safe haven where I can suspend my thoughts indefinitely, knowing that the masses of people either don't see it or simply view it as the ramblings of a self-absorbed idiot.
I've reached a point lately that has required me to look upon myself from an outside perspective to get an understanding of who I really am. The simple fact that I am writing these words here only confirms that I don't like what I see. As much as I try to think positively about the decisions I've made in my life, I am mostly a failure at everything I do. I've been labeled a devoted father, but what kind of father abandons every child he has? I've been called an exceptional man, but how many exceptional men subconsciously self-destruct every relationship they're involved in?
I don't see the point anymore of chasing down this stupid dream of being loved by people. I'm becoming more of a misfit by the day, shirking social engagements for the privacy of my small apartment. I am so honest to others about myself, yet I can't seem to be honest with myself about the truth. I pretend that I don't care what people think of me, when in actuality it consumes me until I want to mold my image into something pleasant. I'm not getting any younger, and I know I will certainly be alone for many years to come. What saddens me is that there are so many people who genuinely would like to know me, the real me, but I won't let them.
Every once in a while, I think of the one person who I really opened up to, the person I really shared my feelings with, and how that person is gone from my life. Forever. If she came back today, she wouldn't fit neatly into the life I've created anyway, for it is an existence of preferred loneliness; even though secretly, sometimes I wish she was still here. But the intense love that I created for her in my heart was carved out with her bare hands when she left, leaving an ulcer that bleeds contempt for her absence.
So why go on forming new relationships that serve no purpose? I don't know the answer to that question at this point, nor do I ever expect to know. I do know that eventually people get bored and frustrated with my inability to interact, and only then do they realize that something is definitely wrong with me. Which doesn't matter, as they've begun to erase my existence from their memory banks, and I become as completely irrelevant as before we spoke. It's a position in life I've grown accustomed to, and it's likely to continue until my death.
I certainly hope all of this failure and suffering amounts to something someday. Maybe I only do this because I'm too scared of taking chances, but every time I take one it strips me of my dignity, of which I have very little to begin with. It has been suggested that I may be the product of my upbringing, but that holds little weight when I've created my own problems and am dealing with those consequences alone. I prefer the weight of the world on my shoulders rather than yours. Mine are stronger, I can almost guarantee that.
I've reached a point lately that has required me to look upon myself from an outside perspective to get an understanding of who I really am. The simple fact that I am writing these words here only confirms that I don't like what I see. As much as I try to think positively about the decisions I've made in my life, I am mostly a failure at everything I do. I've been labeled a devoted father, but what kind of father abandons every child he has? I've been called an exceptional man, but how many exceptional men subconsciously self-destruct every relationship they're involved in?
I don't see the point anymore of chasing down this stupid dream of being loved by people. I'm becoming more of a misfit by the day, shirking social engagements for the privacy of my small apartment. I am so honest to others about myself, yet I can't seem to be honest with myself about the truth. I pretend that I don't care what people think of me, when in actuality it consumes me until I want to mold my image into something pleasant. I'm not getting any younger, and I know I will certainly be alone for many years to come. What saddens me is that there are so many people who genuinely would like to know me, the real me, but I won't let them.
Every once in a while, I think of the one person who I really opened up to, the person I really shared my feelings with, and how that person is gone from my life. Forever. If she came back today, she wouldn't fit neatly into the life I've created anyway, for it is an existence of preferred loneliness; even though secretly, sometimes I wish she was still here. But the intense love that I created for her in my heart was carved out with her bare hands when she left, leaving an ulcer that bleeds contempt for her absence.
So why go on forming new relationships that serve no purpose? I don't know the answer to that question at this point, nor do I ever expect to know. I do know that eventually people get bored and frustrated with my inability to interact, and only then do they realize that something is definitely wrong with me. Which doesn't matter, as they've begun to erase my existence from their memory banks, and I become as completely irrelevant as before we spoke. It's a position in life I've grown accustomed to, and it's likely to continue until my death.
I certainly hope all of this failure and suffering amounts to something someday. Maybe I only do this because I'm too scared of taking chances, but every time I take one it strips me of my dignity, of which I have very little to begin with. It has been suggested that I may be the product of my upbringing, but that holds little weight when I've created my own problems and am dealing with those consequences alone. I prefer the weight of the world on my shoulders rather than yours. Mine are stronger, I can almost guarantee that.
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