Tag Archives: self-loathing

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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Hey-O

I’ve been back home for a few days now. My summer class got canceled, which is sad. I’m going to be bored . . . not to mention the loss of income. But I guess I should be doing things like looking at jobs and working on my writing.

I haven’t come back here right away because I’ve been working on my writing. I haven’t gotten around to editing my novel yet, but hopefully I will after I finish revising this short story I’ve been editing. I’ve also got a short story idea I haven’t started working on yet, and another one that I just finished. The latter is rather dark . . . It would make people wonder at the screwed-up things that go on in my head. I’m not sure what I can do with this story. I’m not sure what I can do with the story I’ve been revising, either. I find it amusing, but I don’t think anyone other than me would. I think the idea is clever, though. I just don’t feel like people would get it.

Then there’s the obsession I’ve referred to before . . . Supernatural. I started writing a fanfiction story because I just couldn’t get it out of my head. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, though. It’s rather embarrassing; I don’t want to go into detail about the story itself. Well, I guess it’ll all just be for my own entertainment.

I’ve finally reached the eighth season of Supernatural, so I’ll probably be spending most of my free time watching that. Since I’m so obsessed and all. It’s bad. Half the time things remind me of little moments in Supernatural. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, lol.

And now we come to some heavy news.

While I was home, my dad almost had a heart attack.

I’m serious. It’s shocking and scary. One morning, he wasn’t feeling well, so he had my stepmom take him to the ER. No one thought it would be anything too bad; after all, he almost passed a stress test. But then they found that he had 100% blockage in his coronary artery. If my dad didn’t go to the hospital when he did, well . . . not something I want to think about.

My reaction to this event makes me think I’ve been lying to myself. I like to think I’m this sensitive, caring, and empathetic person, but I’m not.

I woke up late that morning, and based on certain cues in the house, I could tell something was up. However, unlike what I’d usually do in such a situation, I didn’t call to find out what it was. I didn’t want to, so I didn’t find out about my dad going to the ER until a couple of hours later. At that point, the doctors still hadn’t discovered how bad the situation was.

Then as the truth slowly came out, I felt emotionless. Complacent, even, like of course things turned out okay, because the alternative doesn’t happen in real life. Logically, that’s stupid.

I continued to feel emotionless. I didn’t even see why I should be otherwise. Everyone was concerned and worried, and there I was, a callous person.

It seems I have only two modes sometimes–being callous or being overly emotional. Perhaps that has something to do with my reaction.

The whole thing even seemed funny to me, and I occasionally had to restrain short laughs.

I’ve noticed, though, that sometimes I laugh when I’d normally cry.

But I don’t think that was one of the situations, because as I said, I felt nothing.

Only a few days later, as my mind sifted through the implications of the event, did I get weepy.

I don’t like what my reaction says about my character.

My dad’s fine now; he’s resting.

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Immersive

I like to completely immerse myself in almost everything I do. It helps me connect with the material, get work done. If I’m in the zone, I’m in the zone.

But there’s something dangerous about my predilection for immersion–it threatens to take me away from reality. This is why video-gaming entertainment would never be for me. (That, and the fact that I was never good at video games, nor did I enjoy them all that much.)

But I immerse myself in other things–books. Movies. TV shows. Food.

Anything can become an addiction, so much so that I will live inside that world rather than reality. Not  that I’m unaware of reality or ignoring my real-world responsibilities. Far from it, but my mind is elsewhere. Perhaps it’s not an addiction per se, but it’s something akin to addiction at least.

Blogging used to be one of those immersion activities. That’s one reason I don’t blog as much as I used to. It might not have been noticeable to anyone reading, but blogging had started to consume my life. I suppose there were signs, such as the fact that I occasionally mentioned that my blogging life seemed more real than my “real life.”

Writing is different. My stories, they’re an immersion experience, but they’re much more than that. By “immersion experience,” I mean something that I submerge myself in. While that happens with my stories, there’s also more to them than that. With them, I also take parts of myself and submerge them in the stories.

But with reading, it can be a different story. Sure, I absorb knowledge about writing styles and analyze what I’m reading, but that involves me burying myself in the book’s contents.

TV shows are easier to immerse myself in than movies. There are dozens of episodes, and the result is a TV show’s own intricate universe. It’s easy to get lost in that universe.

We all need a little escapism now and then. That’s why forms of entertainment exist. But I’m afraid, for me, it might go too far. It’s not something anyone would ever notice. I don’t seem to indulge in entertainment any more than a normal person would. (Food, maybe.) But my brain, my mind . . . it halfway lives elsewhere.

Sometimes I wish I could let the fantasy, whatever it is I’m immersing myself in, take over. Then I’d have an excuse for the fact that I’m often drowning in the real world.

I fervently want to live in an alternate reality. I want another life, not my own. Not because my life sucks–it’s not that bad, and there are tons of worse lives out there. But I just–I don’t know.

There’s a hollowness, an emptiness, inside of me that never goes away. There’s a sense of intense guilt that fucking never goes away.

I don’t want it, any of it. The loneliness. The knowledge of how abject I am.

No matter what I do, it never fucking goes away.

That’s why I’m so pathetic that I am compelled to immerse my mind elsewhere.

There’s nothing I can do to express the intensity of it all. I can’t act against myself; I’m too cowardly. I can stuff my face, but at the moment it’s not working as an act of self-destruction, but as an immersion experience. It sounds beyond pathetic, the fact that I will immerse myself in the taste for one split second, for each bite, and let that be all there is for that second.

I need to do something to punish myself, but I can’t. I can do nothing but wallow and cower.

The more the darkness consumes me, the more I immerse myself in other things, other things that my mind buries itself in, other things that can do nothing to counteract the darkness, that can in fact increase the darkness even as they give me one ephemeral moment in which I am free.

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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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Bereft of Words

I’m worried. I finally finished a draft of my novel, and the epilogue is a mere 300 words. I kept thinking I should add to it, but I didn’t know what I should add to it. I still don’t.

I was going to wait a couple of weeks before I started my first read-through, but I’ve jumped into it already. As it turns out, I don’t remember many of the beginning’s details, so I’ll need to fix the consistency.

Then I got triggered this morning. How is immaterial. The catalyst was minor, not something I can really explain. It affected me so much because I’ve already not been doing my best.

I feel like, for the past two years, I’ve been stuck with nowhere to move. I feel like I’ll always be here.

It occurred to me, with a violent wrench, that my dreams of being an author are childish. Idiotic. This stupid passion I thought had sustained me is nothing but an elaborate fantasy. I’m a failure, and my so-called “creative writing” is an attempt to hide my failure from myself, to tell myself, well, it’s not really failure because I get to do this now.

What makes me think I even have the right to be a writer? Look at all the novelists out there. There are a lot of terrible ones, sure, but there are also a lot of good ones. What makes me think I can fit in amongst them? I can’t. That glory is not for me. It’ll never be for me.

My “love of writing” is just stupid juvenile fancy, something to distract me from the real world.

I have no right, and my dreams are stupid, and I’ll feel even stupider when I strive and strive only to never have my ambitions fulfilled.

I felt a momentary urge to burn my hard copy, the one on which I’ve been correcting typos and writing sporadic marginalia.

(N.B.: The following applies to “real life.”)

I’ll never be able to form a connection with anyone, either, not ever. I can’t help but distance myself. Besides, that ship has sailed. Once you reach a certain age, you’re expected to already have those connections, not begin to form them. Those units are already formed. There’s nothing left to join, and people care only about those in their units. Everyone else doesn’t matter.

The world is a hard, cruel place. People care only about self-promotion. Life is all business, about knowing the right people so you can advance yourself. People are valuable only insofar as they are “useful.” You can’t let your guard down, not ever, because it’ll be used against you one day. (No, this didn’t just happen to me–that wasn’t the trigger.) People treat life like business, only caring about “getting ahead,” disregarding the inner core of those they deal with.

Quiet desperation. That’s what I feel. Measured, muted torment, not the frantic kind.

I want to hurt myself just so I can prove to myself I’m not okay. Because this controlled demeanor, it must mean I’m okay, right?

But that would be calculated self-harm, not real self-harm. A way of doing what I do best–putting on a performance.

I was going to write about Blog for Mental Health 2013 today, but this–this I had to get out.

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Addendum

I feel as if my heart’s been shattered. I don’t know why.

Could you cradle me in your arms and let me weep on your shoulders, pour my heart out until it’s empty, it burns no more?

If only I could throw a glass against the wall and watch as the shards bury themselves in your skin.

If only I could hurt you as much as you hurt me.

The meek piece of shit realizes you don’t want her here.

She’ll take her revenge then leave you alone.

(Don’t worry. I don’t know who I’m talking to, either.)

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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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