Saturday, January 13, 2018
Thursday, January 11, 2018
Sorting...? De-confusing...? Internal Monologue Review
I have a weariness of spirit, a heaviness of heart, and a drag in my step that are at once totally familiar to me, extremely comfortable, but leading me more deeply into a lonely, null state. I've been depressed before, I think about things too much, and reach paralysis from fixating on regret, poor choices, my flaws, you know the cocktail.
Aerating these concerns among "loved ones" (have I ever even loved?) has been met with some combination of "I don't understand," "Do goals," or "Medicate." As someone whose goal system has been ruptured seemingly beyond repair from a set of factors outside myself (video games), and as goals are arbitrary, meaningless constructs used to distract ourselves on an increasingly desertifying planet, that leaves medicate and I don't understand.
Well, I don't understand. I don't want to be here. I don't have the energy to force myself into something I don't care about, and I don't care about anything. I have every blessing one could ever imagine (love, sex, nourishment, friendship, entertainment, talent) but I just never saw the fucking point. It's easier to be lazy. I don't have that impulse, that spark, that need to mobilize and motivate and create, but I similarly despise being prodded out of stasis by external forces, having my focus interrupted and redirected to someone else's arbitrary concerns. I don't derive enough satisfaction from accomplishing. I derive too much self-scorn from stumbling.
Medicate seems unwise. I was largely healthy, spirited, ambitious, ego-maniacal and satisfied with life at many points and the malaise that has beset me is a sign, a warning, a trigger that something is wrong and must be righted. I don't need to smooth those feelings over, they serve an important function.
Function for what? I despise myself for my lack, my flaws. I am an example of adult boyhood. I have not exited the womb I was raised in and instead have looked to transplant myself directly into another womb. Or at least, that's the pattern I've observed without there being any sort of underlying directive or motive: seek more pleasure, more comfort, more novelty. Where that falls flat are these periods where I sit back and examine the whole structure, find it wholly dissatisfactory, and become profoundly immune to pleasure. I wholly reject living out my life jumping from high to high in my privileged shell, but only the most determined saplings break their nutty enclosure to face the reality of the cold, dark without. Yet they are the ones that get to evolve, reproduce, transcend.
I want to spend more time bemoaning my latest rupture with a woman. She truly is a lovely partner whom I was blessed to have adore me. But I hate myself, so when someone loves me it seems increasingly glaring and contrasting and disingenuous and scorching for someone to feel about me a way I don't feel I deserve. I'm sorry. I don't hate her. I love her. I hate myself for not being a person whom I can admire and thus relish the soothing she would apply liberally to my soul. I hate myself for choosing to invite her walls down when I knew that behind mine were the same noxious, rotting beliefs that would undermine any connection. I hate setting up expectations that I'm some semblance of centered, whole, growing, and healthy, only to let those illusions fade whenever I get tired of maintaining the illusion. Also, I knew I wasn't growing. Nevermind everything else, my track wasn't aligned, my face wasn't forward, I wasn't surging so any temporary wind in my sails would slowly fade without progress points to reach and all that reinvigoration jazz. Of course life would stagnate. What a cruel fate to bestow upon a vulnerable, inviting, courageous person trying to live in connection.
The worst part is that every belief I hold about life is that connection is the only consistent, healthy way of a satisfying life, yet I push people away at the slightest vulnerability. What was it about finding myself off track that necessitated boxing her out? It didn't. But my vulnerability about being this lonely man-child combined with her rejection of that omnipresent culture made it easier to shut her out, the worst hurt I could throw in her direction to match the self-laceration I gave myself under her gaze. But what if I could grow out of that true moral failing? Especially if I saw it so clearly? What is it about being spurred on to new efforts from friends I trust and care about causes me to reject their influence and further bury myself in isolation and sorrow? Iunno. Probably some fucked up daddy issues, I guess.
I dunno what caused me to resurrect this diary, perhaps just the hopes that someone will read it (because the number one thing a narcissist does best is manipulate an audience's emotions for attention and gratification). Life is for the living, and they've made dozens of dystopic movies about the slow, living-death of the masses eking out their existence masturbating, watching Youtube, eating cookies.
How has your New Year been so far?
Aerating these concerns among "loved ones" (have I ever even loved?) has been met with some combination of "I don't understand," "Do goals," or "Medicate." As someone whose goal system has been ruptured seemingly beyond repair from a set of factors outside myself (video games), and as goals are arbitrary, meaningless constructs used to distract ourselves on an increasingly desertifying planet, that leaves medicate and I don't understand.
Well, I don't understand. I don't want to be here. I don't have the energy to force myself into something I don't care about, and I don't care about anything. I have every blessing one could ever imagine (love, sex, nourishment, friendship, entertainment, talent) but I just never saw the fucking point. It's easier to be lazy. I don't have that impulse, that spark, that need to mobilize and motivate and create, but I similarly despise being prodded out of stasis by external forces, having my focus interrupted and redirected to someone else's arbitrary concerns. I don't derive enough satisfaction from accomplishing. I derive too much self-scorn from stumbling.
Medicate seems unwise. I was largely healthy, spirited, ambitious, ego-maniacal and satisfied with life at many points and the malaise that has beset me is a sign, a warning, a trigger that something is wrong and must be righted. I don't need to smooth those feelings over, they serve an important function.
Function for what? I despise myself for my lack, my flaws. I am an example of adult boyhood. I have not exited the womb I was raised in and instead have looked to transplant myself directly into another womb. Or at least, that's the pattern I've observed without there being any sort of underlying directive or motive: seek more pleasure, more comfort, more novelty. Where that falls flat are these periods where I sit back and examine the whole structure, find it wholly dissatisfactory, and become profoundly immune to pleasure. I wholly reject living out my life jumping from high to high in my privileged shell, but only the most determined saplings break their nutty enclosure to face the reality of the cold, dark without. Yet they are the ones that get to evolve, reproduce, transcend.
I want to spend more time bemoaning my latest rupture with a woman. She truly is a lovely partner whom I was blessed to have adore me. But I hate myself, so when someone loves me it seems increasingly glaring and contrasting and disingenuous and scorching for someone to feel about me a way I don't feel I deserve. I'm sorry. I don't hate her. I love her. I hate myself for not being a person whom I can admire and thus relish the soothing she would apply liberally to my soul. I hate myself for choosing to invite her walls down when I knew that behind mine were the same noxious, rotting beliefs that would undermine any connection. I hate setting up expectations that I'm some semblance of centered, whole, growing, and healthy, only to let those illusions fade whenever I get tired of maintaining the illusion. Also, I knew I wasn't growing. Nevermind everything else, my track wasn't aligned, my face wasn't forward, I wasn't surging so any temporary wind in my sails would slowly fade without progress points to reach and all that reinvigoration jazz. Of course life would stagnate. What a cruel fate to bestow upon a vulnerable, inviting, courageous person trying to live in connection.
The worst part is that every belief I hold about life is that connection is the only consistent, healthy way of a satisfying life, yet I push people away at the slightest vulnerability. What was it about finding myself off track that necessitated boxing her out? It didn't. But my vulnerability about being this lonely man-child combined with her rejection of that omnipresent culture made it easier to shut her out, the worst hurt I could throw in her direction to match the self-laceration I gave myself under her gaze. But what if I could grow out of that true moral failing? Especially if I saw it so clearly? What is it about being spurred on to new efforts from friends I trust and care about causes me to reject their influence and further bury myself in isolation and sorrow? Iunno. Probably some fucked up daddy issues, I guess.
I dunno what caused me to resurrect this diary, perhaps just the hopes that someone will read it (because the number one thing a narcissist does best is manipulate an audience's emotions for attention and gratification). Life is for the living, and they've made dozens of dystopic movies about the slow, living-death of the masses eking out their existence masturbating, watching Youtube, eating cookies.
How has your New Year been so far?
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