06 March 2011

What do you do when you can’t stand being inside your own skin?

What do you do when you can’t stand being inside your own skin? When your brain is your enemy, constantly attacking, even your dreams are not a peaceful haven? That is, if you can sleep. That’s assuming you aren’t lying in bed physically exhausted with inexhaustible thought processes.

What do you do when your soul is empty? Those you let close end up devastating you. You never know who to trust or when to trust them because you can’t trust your own brain. You know you’re going to ultimately be lonely because there is no man strong enough, intelligent enough, compassionate enough or patient enough to understand or handle your kind for long.

Things you once found peaceful and enjoying become no longer so. Always ruined by the fucking emotions, paranoia, cycling from high to barely surviving… where you don’t give a shit if you wake up, shower, shave, eat or even breathe. Hell, it’s not uncommon for a piece deep down inside to almost yearn to stop breathing in hopes of gaining a little bit of non-pharmaceutical induced tranquility.

Concentration exists for about 3 minutes, then the dysfunctional grey piece of shit lodged within your skull takes its own trip throughout the memories and unattainable wishes, wondering what it’s like to not have sympathy or empathy, what it’s like to be a sociopath, normal, functioning with a future. Knowing it takes everything you have just to make it from season to season, that you’re never going to have a normal job, a normal life, a normal anything... just the animals that will never abandon you short of death

Battle weary is an understatement. Having to keep guard over yourself, monitor and police your thoughts, emotions, actions, mostly thoughts, every second of every day of your life, having already done that for 26 years, looking down the barrel at 45 more if the whole life expectancy thing holds true. Which it probably won’t. Your life is lived in a combat mode that does not end. Ever. Even if you are surrounded by friends and those who “love” you. Even If you’re alone with that one special person you trust enough to let you see you at your sobbing, snotting, teary, vomit-filled weakest. You. Have. To. Exert. All. Of. Your. Energy. To. Keep. Yourself. Alive. And. Somewhat. Sane. Each time you hit the depression, not knowing if this is the one that’s going to claim you, or if you’ll pull through it only to know for certain you will be in the same place once again.

How the hell can you think about years down the road when you can barely make it from one day to the next without falling apart; walking the fine line between free and strapped to a bed with Haldol and “professionals” who think they know what the fuck it’s like to be you with their feigned concerned looks and ill-timed, condescending comments about your state of mind and/or actions. Or they say that it sounds like you’ve read one too many books when you try to intelligently discuss the organ staging an armed revolt against your Empire. Who is anybody to judge when they have not walked the same path? There’s reading about it, and there’s living it every excruciating day. Empty. Void of solace. Drained. Exhausted. Helpless. Hopeless. Your essence enduring a lifelong drought.

1 comment:

  1. I listen to Tiger Army. And NOFX. And perhaps the song Float On by Modest Mouse once or twice and sing at the top of my lungs. Sing a little Crack City Rockers from Leftover Crack. Mix in some of The Clash. And at times, Oasis.

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