Tag Archives: isolation

It’s Happening Again

Well, hello, blog. (*Dusts it off.*)

It’s been six and a half months since I’ve updated, and I didn’t even realize it. Sorry. I’m a shitty blogging friend. But I’m still and still and still folding into myself, isolating.

I don’t expect anyone to read this, but I feel the need to document it. I don’t think I’m having another big break, but there is something that happened during the big break that’s happening again. My sleeping trends are out of whack. Then, I would be nervous and reluctant and afraid to go to sleep at night. Also, I would often sleep during the day.

That’s what’s happening again. I don’t want to go to sleep at night, and then I’m out of it during the day. My mind in general is out of it, and I feel like I’m wading through a morass to access any thoughts. I can feel myself doing a shoddy job on my tasks, and what’s more, sometimes I can’t bring myself to care. The only reason I care is that I know I would regret losing my job, that if I suddenly disappear and stop completing tasks, things would only get worse. I’d lose any source of income.

I just want to live in my own make-believe world. I feel like I can’t function in this one.

My therapist and psychiatrist have been talking about suspected Asperger’s. I realized that, when it comes down to it, my problems don’t matter. Social anxiety, anxiety, and depression. Asperger’s, which would not technically be a problem but a “difference.” I live in this world, and in this world, no one’s going to cut my any slack for mental health issues or accommodate me for any potential Asperger’s. If I have Apserger’s, I don’t even want people to know because I think they would view me through the label of that lens rather than as a person with many facets.

Anyway, my problems don’t matter, and so I have to live up to “normal” standards if I’m going to get anywhere in this world. But I can’t. Oh, I’m pretty sure I can’t. I’m not strong enough.

I just keep feeling like everything’s going to come tumbling down.

And I feel so much hatred, mostly of myself. But then sometimes I also just hate every single person I run into.

For a few months, I’ve been meaning to write a post explaining my absence and explaining why any future posts may be sporadic. It’s mostly related to my isolationist tendencies, but there’s also the factor that I’ve been gone so long that I don’t know if I could catch up anymore. (And my embarrassing new-ish Supernatural fanfic hobby.) Maybe I’ll write that one later, but for now, I’m just writing this ramble because I need to get it out of my system.

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Marooned in Myself

It’s hard to explain where my head space has been for the past few months. I don’t know what I should be saying right now. For the past few days, I keep coming on here to post then freezing and having nothing to say.

Well, at work, a few months ago we applied to have my job become a full-time one. The fiscal year begins in July, and since I haven’t heard anything about the matter, I assume it’s a no-go.

This is going to sound really childish, but I’ve always had a belief that things work themselves out for the best. In my life, that used to seem to happen, anyway. It’s also kept me going. But for the past year, things haven’t gone that way, and I’m just afraid I’m destined to fall. That belief is stupid, anyway. Loads of people don’t have things work out for them, so why should they for me? I’m not so damn special. Plus, the world often isn’t fair.

Ideally, I’d like to stay at my current job and have it be full-time. I’m decent at it. I like it there. I’m finally starting to feel like I belong. After two and a half years, which is kind of pathetic, but still. That’s the way I am. It’ll probably take me that long to feel comfortable someplace else.

I feel like this ideal is what’s best for me and my mental health. The pressure of starting over terrifies me. The idea of interviewing and looking for a new job terrifies me. That’s why I’m not assiduous at job-hunting.

For the past few months, I’ve been isolating. I continue to isolate. It’s like I live in this dream world in my mind and ignore large concerns in favor of small ones, only living from day to day. I drift. I let my mind be consumed by stories, both my own and those of others, whether that be in the form of books, movies, or TV shows.

And I like it.

But it can’t last. Bigger concerns will no doubt crash into it all one day. Plus, I feel hollow and alone. I can’t stay like that perpetually.

But I want to stay like this. Keep my anxiety at bay. Be consumed by fantasy because it’s all I have, because I don’t belong in this world.

The more I isolate, the more anxious I do become when I have to be around people. The more I just shut everything out.

The more I don’t read others’ blogs. I feel so guilty about it. I do care about the bloggers I follow. But I fear that maybe I’m lying to myself about that, because wouldn’t I stay more caught up if I did?

Yet I don’t. I continue to remain in my bubble. And the worst part is, I’m not even doing that badly. Just isolating. But perhaps that’s why I’m not doing too badly in the first place–I’ve inured myself into a self-contained isolationist world.

I don’t know. I don’t know what on earth I’m rambling about. But there you have it: the unlikeableness of me.

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Anyone Other Than Me

Sometimes I wish I could be anyone other than me. I shouldn’t. My life isn’t so bad. But I am, and my destiny is to be completely alone, always.

I’ve known it ever since high school. I’ve known that, once I got out into the “real world,” I wouldn’t be able to function like an average human being, that I’d never make connections, ever, that my life would be one of neverending failure and isolation.

It is, but it’s because I’ve done it to myself.

But I can’t do otherwise. I can’t be anything other than what I am.

I can’t form connections with others. If anyone engages me in a conversation, my instinct is to flee. How am I ever going to find friends if all I do is run away?

But I can’t do otherwise. I get too nervous. I choke up, have nothing interesting to say. I enter Awkward Annie mode.

Then I’m afraid of the person eventually finding out how pathetic I am, the fact that I really have no friends, that I’ve lived here for over two years now without forming any connections.

If they knew that, then they’d know there’s something deeply wrong with me.

And even if that weren’t a factor, it’s just . . . I can’t form close bonds. I’m incapable of doing so.

I crave them so much, but they’re something I can never have. It’s impossible for me, like it would be impossible for me to magically become six feet tall. It’s not something that’s inside me.

I’m destined for a life of loneliness. All my dreams of making human connections are silly, childish. The idea of finding a “true love.” That’s not only childish, but it’s also something that can never be for me.

I have more empathy than the average person. Lately, on occasion it’s as if emotions radiate off of others and I can feel them. Yet no one will ever know that I have even an ounce of empathy because I can’t express it. I can’t even express my own emotions.

It’s not possible to dig them out of my soul.

I instinctively know it. If I live until I’m, say, sixty, I’ll have lived a life in which I’m always alone. My need for a human connection will never be met. Writing, reading, films, TV shows, all stories, they just serve as a poor substitute for something I will never have.

I’ve been feeling odd all day. Maybe this sounds idiotic, but I feel as if I’m on some predetermined trajectory, like a storyline that is manipulating me, keeping me in motion. And in this storyline, it’s certain that I’m destined for a life of coldness, one in which I receive no (or very little) of affection’s warmth.

Most other people get at least a semblance of that at some point in their lives.

And thus, I wish I could be other than me.

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Mired, Giving Up, and Hiding

I just can’t do it anymore. I’m floating, and hiding it is the only thing that keeps me holding on. There’s too much pain in my heart. Not me wallowing in my depression and self-pity, although there is that. It’s pain at everything in the world. Which sounds fake and stupid and cliched, but these days lots of things seem to evoke a throbbing in my heart.

No one can help me. It’s partially my fault because I’m isolating myself, but I can’t stop isolating myself. My anxiety ensures I can’t climb out of the well. I feel like I need love and support from someone, but who? Not my family. They’d probably insist I do things I know won’t help, like live near them or something. I don’t have any friends. Well, I have one, but she’s not the sort of person one can expect the loving type of support from. Fellow bloggers? No. It’s not because I doubt the bloggers I know and am connected to, but it’s because I have nothing to offer at the moment. I haven’t for a couple of months, and I probably won’t for much time to come. I can’t just take, take, take. It’s unfair of me. It would be much kinder, and less selfish, if I just fell off the blogging map altogether. I’m too selfish to read other blogs at the moment and be supportive. So I have no right to take anything. I am a believer of quid pro quo, and I would be a hypocrite, fail in my principles, if I couldn’t participate in a quid-pro-quo way.

I’m not going to kill myself or anything. At least, I don’t think so. But I can’t sustain the status quo, either. But what am I going to do? If I don’t continue the status quo, I won’t be able to forgive myself. I have to go about my life, give a facade to the world as if I am capable. But I’m not capable. I am weak. I can’t even live a normal life like an average person. I can’t handle life, and most people can. I’m at the bottom of the rung of humanity.

I cry easily these days, way too easily. On Tuesday, I accidentally spilled water on my desk at work. My first instinct was to cry, but I held it in. I was with a student, after all. Then I had my therapist appointment later Tuesday. We were talking about Spring Break and my family, and for some reason tears started leaking from my eyes. It was a subdued form of crying because I normally sob as I cry. I didn’t (and don’t) even know why I was crying. My past with my family doesn’t even bother me much anymore. Not that we were talking about the past, although I guess we were since the therapist asked me about their responses to my problems, etc.

I don’t know why, but apparently my behavior at the session prompted the therapist to ask if I’d like another appointment on Thursday. I somewhat froze and got all overanalytical. She asked if I’d call if I needed one, and I said no. She said she’d call on Wednesday to ask about it. This was a nice offer; I can’t imagine any of my past therapists doing that. Maybe it’s because she’s young. Maybe young therapists are good because they haven’t gotten jaded by their job yet or something. Ultimately, I decided against it because, nominally, I am okay. I’m not harming myself or attempting suicide, so I don’t need to waste her time. Besides, I’ll see her again this Tuesday, anyway.

Often the only way I can motivate myself to do things is to tell myself I can be a TV zombie if I finish my task in time. This is not my “normal” personality. Usually, I want to do more than watch TV, but not for the past few weeks, unless you count lying there or sleeping. I can’t motivate myself to write, either here or creatively. Maybe it would help, but I can’t ignite myself, so no.

Funnily, one of the few things that provides me solace right now is watching Supernatural on NetFlix. I started about three weeks ago, and now I’m at the beginning of Season 2. I don’t know why the show often emotionally resonates with me at the moment. Probably because I’m overly emotional in general. I could probably write a post with my thoughts on the show, but then it would look like I’m doing better than I really am.

I also have many thoughts about my therapist (mostly good so far) that I could probably document, if I felt up to it, but I don’t.

But still, I’m not okay, and nobody can help me. I’m all alone, and it’s partially my fault, but I can’t be anything other than what I am. I so wish I could give up in some form–suicide, dropping out of society and just sitting around the house, admitting defeat in some way. I am giving up, but in a waffling, drowning sort of way. As so often happens, the motive to hide and blend in is all that keeps me around.

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A Heart Bursting With Weakness

I’m going to do some complaining even though I have no right to. Things are going decently, comparatively speaking. I’m not in one of those deep darknesses that make me feel as if I might endanger myself. It’s a softer spell.

I’m just so tired. All I want to do, and all I’ve wanted to do for some time, is sleep. But going to sleep at night makes me nervous. I don’t know why.

I just want to sit here and do nothing. For my whole life, almost. I can’t get myself to do more than the bare minimum at the moment.

I want to lie in a warm cocoon and never leave.

There’s so much pain in my heart. Just pain about everything, the whole world. Any topic I can think of, and I feel as if something about it smites my heart.

I’ve been reading over the rough draft of my novel. I think I’ve come to the end of the part I wrote during NaNoWriMo. I still have circa 46,000 words out of 112,000 left to read. I wrote most of those after NaNoWriMo, so I guess my blogging hiatus paid off. I would’ve never been able to write so much otherwise.

But the last couple of chapters I’ve read in it have been awful. I don’t know how to fix them. And now I read it, read everything, and the writing is in abysmal shape. I’m not cut out for this. It’s just not good enough, and it’ll never be good enough. All this effort I put into noveling is laughable. I don’t know how to edit. There are many wonderful books out there, and this idiotic novel will never fit in among them.

I have to put the novel away for a few days; I can’t look at it right now without shuddering at how inane it is.

Still, after a few days, this random pain in my heart (it has nothing to do with the novel) won’t go away. Everything makes me want to cry. I don’t know where it’s coming from or what it means. Nothing’s happened to trigger it.

Something whispers to me:

No one likes you. You’re weak.

The only thing for it is to maroon yourself from humanity.

I don’t care if that hurts. It’s what you deserve, and it’s not like you’ll ever belong anyway.

The world is too much. It bruises, and you bruise too easily.

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Sensitivity and Defensiveness

I am too sensitive. Simple as that.

I’ve been told this my whole life. I’ve known it my whole life. I would remember the hurtful things most, holding them in my mind, maintaining a grudge even when I knew it was wrong, even when I knew I wasn’t being sensible, even when I knew the words had never been meant as criticism.

Any hint of disapproval, whether in the words themselves or the inflection of the voice, would have me devastated. Another scar on my soul, a scar that wouldn’t even be there if I weren’t such a weak person.

But I have my pride. Yes, even though I am deeply insecure and hate myself so much, there’s pride in me. Pride is wrong. It’s egotistical. It makes me question myself. Am I really as insecure as I say I am? If I were, then I wouldn’t have this pride. I must be a poseur, lying both to myself and the outside world.

After being constantly derided for my sensitivity, I tried to hide it better. I often did a piss-poor job, breaking into fits of weeping I’d be told were way out of proportion to the situation. I didn’t reveal my innermost thoughts, though, because I knew I’d just be told they were silly.

I would wonder why no one loved me, but I didn’t say anything about this to anyone. I was inclined to keep my self secret.

This was no one else’s fault. How were my parents supposed to reassure me if I never brought up what I was feeling? In the grand scheme of things, I had good parents. They’ve always cared about me, and many can’t say the same.

It’s always been my fault. I should’ve learned to be stronger.

How can I ever make it in life if I bruise so easily?

I like the idea of constructive criticism. I’d rather people be honest about matters than mince words.

At the same time, I need to be handled with kid gloves. Too much indication that I’ve done something wrong, and I crumble.

Yet I cannot be handled with kid gloves. If I am, then I feel insulted, as if the person talking to me believes I’m too much of a baby to digest the cold, hard truth. Or that they’re disguising their real feelings by feeding me lies.

My sensitivity makes me defensive. I feel like I have to prove I’m not wrong at all costs. I have to vindicate myself. I have to explain every little thing that led me to an action in order to show I’m right. If I’m wrong, then it feels like a personal failure.

The only way never to be hurt is to isolate myself, yet I crave human contact, human connection.

But I feel unworthy of that connection.

There’s always an insurmountable distance as well.

People are always closer to others than they are to me. I grow jealous and take it as a personal affront. I’m not good enough, I think, or else that person would talk to me as much as they talk to those other people. I can’t initiate the contact myself. What if I’m bothering them? I’m always a bother. When I’m present, they might indulge me so they don’t hurt my feelings. Why do they care about my feelings? They don’t, perhaps. They just don’t want to see me make a scene.

I’m overly defensive in order to protect myself. I grow hard, disdaining the world. This to prevent my sensitivity from devouring me.

For that would be the end of me.

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I Am Mired in the Farthest Darkness

It is hard to describe where my head has been lately. It’s not like I’m a danger to myself. In some ways, I am more normal than usual. So I really have no right to be worrying you folks; it’s a bluff. That’s why I keep calling it a performance. I know I’m not going to do anything, so there really is no need for alarm.

Am I pretending? I don’t know. I feel like I must be since I can function like a regular human being.

But my mind is somewhere darker, somewhere unreachable. I want to talk to someone, I want someone to help me, but I know no one can.

It’s a quieter, seemingly subdued darkness. But, to reference a cliche, still waters run deep. If you saw me in real life, you wouldn’t think my behavior indicated anything out of the ordinary. The darkness is buried somewhere deeper.

I don’t know what to do, and I don’t think there’s anything I or anyone can do. A week ago, I genuinely thought it was gone. But it was a cruel joke that something, the universe, I don’t know, played on me.

It feels like one of those delusions that gripped me twice before. I’m still not sure those were really delusions, though. I have mentioned the one in which I thought I had the soul of a murderer. I feel like, in some ways, the other one could seem more absurd. I just feel like these are things that people would laugh off as impossible, but something in me knows they’re true.

Okay, suicide talk coming up. Be prepared.

Back in the days of the big break, I was suicidal. I’ve mentioned that. But what I didn’t mention was that my mind turned my most powerful weapon against suicide into one for suicide. The first time I was suicidal, I was thirteen. (Wow, that’s half a lifetime ago.) Ever since then, the thought that I was supposed to be here had stopped me. I felt bad because I knew I was always bluffing when I threatened suicide, even if I didn’t feel like it. I almost died as a baby, you see, so I held to the belief that God had saved me for some purpose. It kept me from attempting suicide, anyway.

But during those hellish last few months of 2009, my mind told me that God had preserved me so that I could kill myself at that very point in time. That was my purpose in life. If I didn’t, then I was disappointing God. My brain used the story of Abraham and Isaac as an example. Maybe God was testing me to see if I would actually do it. Like God had tested Abraham to see if he would kill his son if it was God’s will.

This is why I fucking hate the story of Abraham and Isaac and think that Abraham really failed, even if the Bible doesn’t say so. It wasn’t God telling him to kill Isaac, you see. It was the devil’s voice masking as God’s. God stopped Abraham before he could commit the act since Isaac was important for the future. I don’t fucking care if this isn’t in the Bible. The Bible isn’t the word of God, it’s inspired by God.

If you think I’m wrong, please be merciful and keep any contradictory opinions to yourself. This is my interpretation, and it’s the only way I was able to justify not attempting suicide.

But for a long time, I thought it was my purpose to kill myself right then. My despair was compounded by guilt that I was failing God. And there’s a small part of me that still believes this, that thinks I should’ve killed myself then, or at least tried to, but now it’s too late. So I failed.

Now I don’t go around having such magical thinking all the time. I don’t. But I do believe in God and that we have purposes and all that jazz.

You can fucking laugh at how ridiculous that “delusion” sounds. You must think I’m a fucking moron. I don’t fucking care.

(She spouts defensively.)

Well, if you are going to laugh, fuck you. I’ve just stripped myself to the barest depths of my soul. If that’s a laughing matter to you, you are assigning my core to the metaphorical trash heap. Ah, well. It probably deserves to be there anyway.

This explanation is longer than I meant for it to be. I can’t even explain what this deep darkness is. I’ve only scratched the surface. I don’t think it’s ever going away, because it hadn’t done so when I’d thought it did. Who knows? Maybe I will eventually become suicidal so I can escape. Not that I deserve to escape.

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