PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In recent months, great leaps forward have been made. For me, in a personal sense. Since I was a young boy I've wanted to know how to throw a proper punch, and now I could take off somebody's head with one shot from my dominant hand. I've always admired novelists and storytellers, often wishing I could be one myself. Now, I'm in the middle of at least four different short stories. Lord knows if they'll ever be completed, but it's sure as hell a better place to be in than before, where I could only think and talk about my narrative ideas without ever executing them. Perhaps most impressively, I've shed even more weight and finally motivated myself enough to keep a semi-regular exercise regimen, resulting in a physique that I never even dreamed of possessing. I have abs, for the love of God. And pecs! I NEVER thought I would have ANY muscle in my chest or stomach!

I've maintained a full-time position at a company that treats me well, even if the pay leaves a little something to be desired. But, I make more than enough to survive and indulge in my hobbies, which is all that a reasonable person should be able to want. My social life is lacking a bit, but my close friend remain close, and my weekends are usually rife with things to do. Whether or not I choose to take part in them is subject to my moods and whimsy, but at least they're there. Were I to be more engaging and open, I'm sure even more social opportunities would present themselves. But that's just it: this proclivity for isolation has always been a huge part of my never-ending downward spiral.

Despite every good thing I've done for myself, I cannot seem to lift the veil of self-loathing which rests over my eyes. For every pound that melts away, I mentally flog myself for not trying harder to improve my diet. For every successful hook I throw, I deride myself for my poor balance. For every line which comes together nicely, I chide myself for the slow pace of my writing, or for how little poetry I've been able to produce as of late. No matter the accomplishment, there is a failing that lays just underneath, baring a hungry mouth filled with rusty, iron-capped fangs. Why is that? What the hell happened to me as a child that makes it so I cannot see the light piercing the dark? My therapist has been at a loss so far, though his insights have at least been helping to ease my mind. But knowing that he is so unsure makes me despair for my future.

A persistent childhood timidness grew into fearful anxiety once I hit adolescence. That anxiety soon evolved into full-blown depression, gripping me before I even made it to high school and becoming exponentially more potent as time drags on and life teaches its varied lessons. I was instructed to believe that such dark ways of thinking were temporary, and simply a product of my age and the difficulties of being a teenager. But after scraping my way into college, things continued growing worse; eventually resulting in my first, real thoughts of suicide once the longest and really, only successful relationship I've ever had came to an abrupt end. Since then, I've dropped out of college (having never really wanted to be there in the first place), worked a myriad of pointless, temporary jobs and struggled with accepting the fact that this is my life, and that I will likely be this way until I really do drop dead.

Each day I head home from work and smoke marijuana. I need it to sleep with any sort of regularity, to reset my tumultuous mindset, and to chase away thoughts of self-harm and self-hatred. Thankfully I have never taken a knife to my wrist or even considered purchasing a handgun, but I do supplement any desire to cause myself pain with exercise. This is healthy I'm told, but often times I do it simply because I know that it is an acceptable way to hurt myself. I slam my bare-knuckled fists against the stained vinyl of my heavy bag because eventually, if I strike with enough gusto, my hands will tear open and bleed. I throw elbows with enough speed and power to make them look like fleshy lightning strikes that cause head trauma, and if I repeat them like a lunatic metronome, so too will my elbows rip open and spit red.

Yet even my positive habits are rooted in guilt and shame. I work out on a consistent basis only because I am terrified of gaining weight and looking unattractive. I still am unable to see myself as appealing or alluring, but I know that things will only get worse if I become 'lax with my schedule. Often times I have to consciously convince myself to get some writing done, because I feel so sick with guilt that the urge has not come on naturally. In a way, I am eternally grateful for anything which breaks me of my habitual laziness, but I am so tired of beating myself up that the price occasionally feels too high. I WANT to be someone with endless creativity and motivation to produce original works, but not if it means hating myself until I'm tempted to seek an early grave. Thus far in life, I feel I have accumulated nothing of actual worth, and my personality seems to be literally decaying. Though I feel more capable, intelligent and even interesting, in a perverse way; I also know that I have infinitely more anger, am more argumentative and confrontational, and have become much less accommodating. I am deeply entrenched in a single man's world, and judging by my current tenure in yet another year-long stag spell, my overall appeal as a man is in decline as well. Women I've actively sought have enjoyed telling me so.

The end result is a day-to-day existence with nothing to look forward to besides getting stoned in an apartment that's empty save for an uninterested cat. After my last experience pursuing a woman, who ended said pursuit by telling me to change my hair, clothes and external persona; I find myself totally unable to flirt or even strike up casual conversation with anybody of the opposite sex. I assume that I am a bother and, as my therapist puts it, "write scripts" that pertain to how our interaction might play out (spoiler: they all end with her walking away disgusted). Essentially, this means I am broken in some way. I detest being around attractive and confident people because my jealousy embitters me towards them. My hatred for arrogance burns brighter than ever before, because I see it as a farce which nets the most awful, self-consumed people the most desirable mates. Regardless of my opinions, that "farce" is exactly what allows such people to lead the lives they lead. People enjoy confidence - they are able to feed off of it, and it makes those who have it in abundance much more magnetic.

A large part of the problem is my insistence on living life with a seemingly-unshakeable belief that I "deserve" to have good things happen to me. Because I have strived to be generous and kind, surely the world will be kind and generous to me, right? Being forced to confront the laughable tenuousness of said belief is more or less what initially helped me shed my belief in God, though it did nothing to actually improve my life. At times I wonder if casting off what little spirituality I had might have made things that much worse, but seeing as it's provided such an avenue for curiosity and self-education; in the end, I think it's only proven to make me more inquisitive and thoughtful. Either way, a true man needs no thoughts of heaven or a heavenly father in order to do right by himself and the people in his life. I've yet to remove myself from the world not because I fear God's wrath, but because I have no desire to cause my friends and family sorrow. I know that they would miss me dearly - that my absence would leave a huge, gaping void in their lives - and I would never wish to cause any one that sort of pain. So, I've continued sticking around, but for what?

Everybody needs a goal in order to function. I've had the same goal since before I was ten years old: find a girl that you like and get her to stick around. Being an artist, a writer, a musician; all of those things were never a true priority in comparison to finding love. They came secondarily, as I wiled away the hours waiting for and seeking out a young woman that sees the appeal in me as I see the appeal in her. And now that I possess such a plethora of creative talents, I find that I use them as a way to gauge my value as a human being. I have no college degree and no evidence of my intelligence outside of the words that fly out of my mouth, so how am I able to show the world that I DO deserve love and affection and regard? By being an artist, and contributing to society in a way so minor and insignificant that not one, single person gives a genuine shit. That was apparently the path I decided to embark on, and it has lead me here, to a present where I have accomplished nothing and struggle with a self-loathing so deep that it poisons my very dreams. Good choice, huh?

According to my therapist, I have "much wisdom to share". Of course, the spiteful and paranoid imp living inside my head automatically took that as some sort of slight or sarcastic insult. But I know that it wasn't. Most older people I've spoken to at length find my words and ideas very impressive, which is probably why I've always tended to get along better with adults, even as a child. But this "wisdom" fails me time and time again, or fails to appear entirely. Were I so informed, wouldn't I have some awareness of my own self-worth? Couldn't I gaze into a mirror and see a handsome, intelligent and hyper-creative young man staring back from the reflection? Instead I see a flailing disappointment, awash in the oceans of life without a proverbial oar or life jacket (hell, I'm pretty sure the entire fucking boat went under the first time a woman handed me my own disembodied heart).

I've yet to experience a second relationship that compared to my first. She wasn't my first girlfriend, but she was my first real experience with true, lasting commitment, and it meant so much more than even I thought at the time. Since its denouement, no other woman has made me as happy, or filled me with such drive, or driven me as crazy with lust. I've had good experiences in the interim, but they were temporary; as ephemeral as a "relationship" possibly could have been. In the spaces in between there have also been assorted and varying lengths of time where I have been alone, with no prospects or interest from any woman - forcing me to become introspective and questioning of my personal value. And no matter what the circumstances may be, I inevitably conclude that I am the problem, and that I am doomed to feel this way forever.

I know that this is a particularly sour note to end on, but this diatribe wasn't really meant to go anywhere. My therapist will continue to help as best he can, as will the other people in my life, and I'm grateful to them. I wish I could see it as an effort worth undertaking, but I suppose I see myself as a lost cause, and I pity those who waste their time on lost causes.