Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Confession

The link below is to a poem I posted and then edited many times as I am prone to do. Since I might change it in the future I am just linking to it.
Originally, it was written in 2006 or 2007 while I still worked part time for 2 people I thought were friends.

The poem describes how I live, a bit more optimistically than I see it now. Hope was real, and the possibility of change was believable. But then I thought the friendships were real too. I was naive and I was 50.

likely vs inevitable

Seems likely that every attempt I make to change my life will fail based on historic evidence. I can't guarantee that well aways be true, but it is highly likely as I have no evidence that my approach is not just an fantasy pretense of change that won't be real.

It comes down to failure vs success and how you scale it and frame it.

I am trying to figure out how to take steps forward, knowing the likelihood of failure, with experiencing intense pain that won't subside unless I back off.

I don't understand the pain. I can avoid it by distraction, or stopping everything. But the consequence is horrific, embarrassing, humiliating.

I keeping thinking that I can do things to better my life regardless of my success towards that goal and that I could more easily bare the pain, and perhaps I can live that way. It's idea I have, It is only idea.

Can I tolerate living if I stop avoiding? I don't know,

I am not answering my phone.

I will aim for that after I pay my mortgage which is 90 days overdue cause I haven't managed mailing money or going to the bank. I have my car, electric, and phone payments to make as well.

I have no food. 24 hours since I ate. I am aiming to go buy food at supermarkets which are where I can pay my mortgage and get better, cheaper food than from the local store 1 mile from my house. I have been thinking of doing this for 3 months and have not yet succeeded.

The anxiety I feel is intense and it hurts. It's illogical and real and in my head. I feel hopeless.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Feeling Normal

A lot of the time I feel normal. I don't cry or do anything really. I lie in bed. Play solitaire computer games and/or watch TV. I sleep most of the day now and am awake at night. Everything seems normal except I don't talk to anyone except my dog, and I only leave the house when I run out of food.

If I don't think about how I am living and what I don't do, then everything seems normal, and I don't feel pain.

I have very intense dreams: 1. about former friends telling me to go away while I try to beg for a chance and I try to tell them how important it is that I am able to be with children, but they are not allowing me to speak and they are blocking; 2. I am being beaten and stabbed and I won't back down about something and I won't agree and I keep getting beaten.

All I have to do is start to write and I start hurting. It is hard to keep avoiding the pain and it is impossible to bear it.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

biased truth

It's impossible to tell everything and so therefore there is a biased filter regardless of how truthful I try to be. I often write in my head and it never gets written. Then there is so much to tell, what is relevant and useful can be obscured. That of course presumes there is a purpose and a value which I would like to be real but likely isn't.

I desperately want some meaning to this misery and horrific existence I choose to live and yet seem unable to alter.

I am so sorry I am how I am ... because of my children. I want them to know I am very sorry for how I am. I want to believe that I really don't know how to change, and that I am unable, and even though it seems stupidly simple to them, it truly isn't.

I wrote a poem, Skin Deep, about truth.

I want what I write to be true. I can never be sure. I believe it is but I am never sure. I just don't want to harm my children. I believe that by isolating myself from everyone that I can avoid harming them. I believe this because I have reached out for help and little is offered and not enough and the duration is short lived and them I am avoided. I could argue that my family (parents, children) can't help me anymore than I can change. It is just too painful. It could be indifference or disgust but I believe there is love, so that therefore it is about inability and not just a choice to walk away from me, because I am not worth it, or because I don't matter in their lives.

It's painful to think about the possibilities and it is hard to be alone when I dwell on it

I hate hope. I think hope drives living and I can't shirk it. Occasionally, I believe I have lost hope but then I hope my children forgive me.

I don't hope that for my parents. I know they want to stay blind to my life and because I know this I want that for them too. My father is proud to never have visited my home which I have lived in for 16 years. I find that pride disgusting and I don't  mind be public about that disgust. But is is just mean to emphasize this point which I have had made clearly to me in the past. And they don't agree with me. I love my parents. They provided well for me as child and they have and still do always mean well, regardless of how they act or what they say. And then there were things they never knew, so they couldn't have done anything about them. I want the rest of their lives, be it up to 15 to 20+ more years, to be enjoyed by them and to be unhampered by me. Not knowing me is what they want so I want it for them. I want them to enjoy their life.

They would want me in their lives if I were different, but that is not going to happen, so not being in their lives is my best choice, I don't think they think about me much, or even miss me much, if at all. I think it would surprise them to know how I often think about them and wish them well. We used to talk maybe 2 to 4 times yearly — "we" meaning my mother and me. I don't think I have spoken to her since last Christmas when I saw her in person as well as my son.

I will make a point of letting my mother know that I think about them often and wish them well. I have told them before, probably more than once, but it is always a good thing to say because it is always a good thing to hear, and it is true.
.

Friday, April 23, 2010

repulsive behavior

Hard to understand how abuse, physical or mental, is more tolerable than sticking with a friend who is depressed, but it is. It's socially acceptable to reject those who pull you down and shunning them from your life is a good thing.

And then we call depression a disease and pretend that we give a shit. It is a double standard. We want to watch and see people who live in filth. We pay people who cheat with married people for their stories and turn them into celebrities. We delve into supposed sex addition and drug addition but never depression.

We hear about depression from those few who have conquered it and even then only briefly do we hear anything, in very little detail, No one wants to know.

It is not an unreasonable position. Hopelessness sucks you dry and its a bit catchy, perhaps because it makes us look at ideas about life and how we live and what's important. It's also just not fun to be in company of someone who is depressed. I understand the choice. I just hate the lie. Cause no one really cares. There is no worthwhile return on investment. We live by "What's in it for me?"

Fact is, on some real level, I just don't really matter to anyone. I know I don't matter to me and I don't know how to learn that. I don't think it can be learned as an adult. I think you need have some piece of this from your childhood. If you never had anyone who liked how you are, how do you learn it. It's not about being loved, that's more abstract and hard to absorb when how we are has been picked apart and laughed at every day.The good things that happen do not balance it out.

People equate how we are to who we are. They are not the same.

It is strange to me that I understand how to like people for who they are as they are. It's why I like a lot of people. I accept people for who they are and like a people as they are and am kind to people but that is so insufficient when you are also so socially inept and unskilled and blundering. People tire of you and cannot believe you cannot learn what comes natural to them. But how can a color-blind person ever tell red from green?

It is complex. I like who I am. I like my values. I hate how I live. I love my abilities and don't mind my inability to perceive socially, but it hurts me that it isolates me from having real connected relationships. I hate that the only way I can manage pain is by shutting down completely, fucking up my life. I hate that I see it coming and watch it, helpless to change it. I love to love and to be kind. I thrive on being kind in any and every way. When I see an opportunity which I can do I enjoy taking it. Isolated I rarely find opportunity. I love children. It's such a pleasure to see who they are and enjoy it. Been a long tine since I had that opportunity. Today, I hate living. I wish I were dead. It is highly implausible that i will ever kill myself, which sucks cause I am stuck living. I often wish I could give my life to someone else. Because I have a son and daughter, it would be mean to kill myself. They have never harmed me and I won't harm them. Besides, there are always moments of reprieve: TV plots of shows or movies, comedy, writing poetry, thinking about something else. On rare occasions my children talk to me. I have ways to survive the pain. It just sucks. I have moments when I believe I can do things and then I mostly don't. Living sucks. It's complex.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

random thoughts today

I thought it would be easy to write here but it is not.  I wish it were.

I live in my imagination and I wish all the time. I wish I was not how I am. I wish I could change the past. I wish I were dead. I wish I could just live reasonably normally. I wish the pain would stop. I wish it would not hurt so much to breathe. I wish I could die. I am coward and a liar, because I have no intention of dying (at least I won't kill myself), but what I do is so far from living. It hurts to go here.

It hurts people to know me, so I don't let anyone know me anymore. I mean I stopped pretending to have relationships that really don't exist, except in my head. It is easy to not answer the phone. Fact is, no one tries any more.

People feel pain when they are helpless. I know people who care about me in the abstract. They want me to be living well and they can't bear to know the truth. I don't want to cause pain and they don't want to know me. So I oblige them. It is a kindness to do that I think.

It hurts me that I cannot relate correctly to people. I've been this way all my life. I have never had real friends because I lack the ability that people have to do that well.

Beginning in the middle

Today I am starting a blog in anonymity (sort of). Visibly invisible. A place to speak to a universe without ears. To express my depression? Maybe to say what I never say to anyone.

I live alone. I rarely speak to anyone anymore. I rarely go out. It is very hard to go out. I imagine going out, but weeks go by. I manage when food runs out. But not otherwise.

I have written a lot of poetry, editing it over and over. I suppose my poem "About Where I Write" is as good a place as any to start.


About Me

United States
speaking to a universe without ears