Why do we always find ourselves drawn to the things we should not touch – to the things we should not have? Why do we repeatedly and defiantly make choices that cause us nothing but regret?
In my case, I think it’s a slow suicide. A way to wallow in my misery and take a few minutes, hours, days off my life at a time. It’s safer this way; reversible. I am a coward.
But I’m not afraid to take small steps, to endanger my life one calorie at a time. I get a little closer and closer to the sun until my wings melt and I fall. Then, in a flurry of regret, I rebuild them with vigor and positive self-talk – controlling my hunger and choosing the path farthest from the sun’s scorching rays.
But I get cold, and I get closer… and closer… until I fall again. One of these days, the fall is going to be fatal.
I am Icarus. I will touch the sun.
I think it’s strange how I find it more difficult to write when I am happy than when I am depressed.
Perhaps it’s because when I am depressed, I want to get the feelings out.
But when I am happy, I want to hold on to them as tightly as possible.
I feel as though God is systematically allowing all the things I love to do to become impossible.
I love to paint, to write (by hand), to type, to cook, to play video games, to fuck around on my phone.
And little by little, my hands can no longer sustain any of them for longer than a few minutes at a time. Shit, “few minutes” is being generous.
It takes about 30 seconds for the pain to start. Depending on what I’m doing, my hand will either fall asleep, which is painful in and of itself, or it will simply be a level of painful that can only be aptly characterized as excruciating.
Did I do this to myself? Partly. I never took great care of myself, particularly nutritionally. But I always thought that would only affect my ability to do things with my legs.
Maybe this isn’t my fault. Maybe it’s just my brain being an asshole. Either way, chronic pain really, really sucks.
I guess I’ll just have to get used to it.
Out here in the cold; Wandering astray…
Mixed states are the very definition of insanity. When you have all this energy but all you want to use it for is being depressed. It’s during the mixed states that the anger is at its worst – it’s like my brain is frustrated with the state of chaos in which it finds itself so it channels that into a nagging feeling of being really pissed off – except you have no idea why.
Why. That’s such a double-edged word. I have reached the end of my tether with people asking me why I’m depressed.
What’s wrong? You seem down.
And then the inevitable next question: What’s making you depressed?
The chemicals in my brain are making me depressed. Sure, the state of my physical health adds to that, but the root cause is that my brain can’t figure what the fuck it’s doing with my emotional state.
Let’s have a depressed day! We’ll celebrate with not getting off the couch except to overeat followed by some suicidal ideation! How’s that sound?
That sounds like a fucking hoot, let me tell ya.
Oh, wait! I’ve changed your mind! Let’s be manic and spend so much money your checking account gets overdrawn then follow that up with risky hypersexual behavior that you will definitely regret later!
Actually, I can’t decide. So let’s do BOTH! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!
Fuck you, brain. All I want is some normalcy. Some predictability. Some boring, everyday, routine. But, no. Throw in the fact that I am now in a rapid-cycling hell that makes it impossible sometimes to even have a single day of feeling one way or the other and it’s just too much bear.
The burden is overwhelming. I carry this weight, this ongoing battle in my mind on my shoulders and each day I hunch over a little farther. Soon, I won’t be able to walk anymore – crushed beneath its load, gasping for breath.
I don’t recognize myself anymore. I used to be awesome; driven, focused, smart.
I used to be me.
The scratches are numerous on my arm now; like notches in the belt of a manwhore counting his recent conquests. There’s no blood. I haven’t been able to bring myself to cut that deep. It’s just the surface, red and raised, with little flecks of skin sticking up like tiny stalagmites.
Counting these parallel lines is oddly comforting. Seeing these soldiers of my psychological battle lined up, ready to take the pain, makes me feel peaceful – like I have an army in my corner.
What a fucking load of shit. I know that, deep down. I know it’s a crock, that these scratches aren’t doing anything but hurting me, but who cares? No one; hence the scratches. It’s not that I find pleasure in the pain – it’s not some sort of masochism, providing sexual gratification. No, it’s not that at all. The pain feels good – because it stops. It’s the only pain that stops and I need that. I need to know that a pain exists that isn’t endless. I need to know there’s a reprieve.
There’s a remission with these scratches. The pain is instantaneous… then it’s gone, it’s over, and there’s relief. Relief. Pain to take away pain. Seems counterintuitive, doesn’t it? But then again… The treatment for cancer doesn’t exactly feel good.
Maybe that’s what this is; rudimentary chemotherapy for this cancer that is my depression, anxiety, and pain. The worse before it gets better.
Or maybe I’m just fucked up.