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Cease
Eventually, I won't have to be here anymore. I won't have to be anywhere. I won't have to be. I won't have to persist knowing that tomorrow will be exactly the same and that the uproar inside of me has not ceased. I won't have to resist the urges to flee and hide; to isolate myself in an enclosure where no prying eyes can penetrate, and where I can mend myself, temporarily. I won't have to try and patch myself up constantly using traditional means that the general public finds acceptable but that rarely do much good. I will pass into a sleep that has no feasible end. And if I truly and honestly wanted to sleep now, nobody could do anything to stop me.
I'm unable to write anything right now that strays from this subject. I can't breed falsehoods into my consciousness to lift my spirits. I can't lie to myself. I have no access to optimism because there is no bright side to being born an increasingly-miserable person. I'm just withering slow over time while being damaged and scarred by every small, trivial issue that I'm confronted with. Each rejection stings far too much, and my self-loathing has become so all-encompassing that I can't even imagine finding love with someone face-to-face. I can only peruse dating websites, browsing through each candidate as if I were shopping online for a new amplifier, because through that filter I'm able to compose myself at least a little bit and put up a front that says, "Look at me! I'm interesting! I'm creative! I'm... Sort of handsome, maybe! I don't have a traincar's worth of emotional issues and baggage! Date me, please!"
The conflicts are endless and self-perpetuating: someone as unstable as me shouldn't be looking for a girlfriend. I should be trying to get things together as best I can before involving someone else in my life. But I don't want to wait for a resolution that isn't likely to ever arrive. Chances are I will never be happy. As I grow older, things become worse, no matter what methods I use to try to better things for myself. Perhaps I do indulge in my unhappiness too much and I certainly have before, but with all of the strain I've put myself under through medication and therapy, you would think there would be some tangible improvement. But things only grow blacker, very slowly, and now I find myself trying to work from home as often as possible so that I can be alone throughout the day. Being alone helps. Being away from everyone else makes me feel like less of a fool's burden, placed on my family and social circle, forever doomed to whine and carry on while the world around me just quietly wishes I would quiet down and learn to cope.
I want nothing more than a girlfriend, though. It's sad how strongly this desire still burns - as if it would somehow solve everything. I find myself less and less able to function like this. I've stopped caring about my output at work, and spend every second of my eight hour day watching the clock and trying to distract myself from said clock, wishing I was home with my cat and my marijuana. I find myself thinking that, "If I just had someone that I knew cared, unconditionally, and was waiting for me to get home, or to text them, or to call, then maybe I'd be able to love myself a bit more and wouldn't think in such dark terms." But then I'm scolded for this line of thinking; it's selfish, they say. It's selfish that I would suggest that it's somebody else's job to re-wire whatever has gone so wrong with my circuitry. And they're right, aren't they? I should feel guilty for believing such a thing, and for desiring a good woman in my life so fiercely. Then the guilt builds upon my well of self-hatred, and it makes me wonder, "Will things ever be different? Will they be better? Worse?" It's as if I've been locked into an iron box, the inner walls lined with spikes, and if I grow restless at all I instantly begin to hemorrhage blood from both old and new wounds.
I live for isolation and intoxication: the two essential I's. I'm lucky to have the friends that I have, who are understanding and accomodating. For them, and for my family, I do feel quite blessed. I only wish that I was able to embrace them more fully so that I could expel this loneliness that poisons me every day. I wish I didn't need pills, or therapy; I wish that I had goals and motivating ideas that would push me forward. I wish that I believed in myself and had a dream to chase down over the course of my life. Sadly, the only dream I have is of experiencing the kind of love I experienced with Emily, at least one more time; and as far as I can tell, I don't deserve it. I don't have what any decent women are looking for. If that's the case and things are only growing worse, it only seems logical to pursue my endless sleep. By the time I've met someone amazing and available, I will be so thoroughly corrupted and damaged and decayed that I won't even be capable of maintaining a relationship.
The only way to close this is by reaffirming the only truth that seems to maintain itself: things are getting worse, and I'm ready for sleep. I can only hope it comes soon and naturally, so that my inevitable suicide doesn't trouble my family and friends, forcing anyone to blame themselves for my actions. I am my only enemy, and I am the only person I am unable to escape fully.
But I will, eventually, cease.
