I throw every scrap of paper away, every scrawling I attempt goes into the trash because I can’t make good things. I can’t conjure transference. I can’t bring the mental image to life for anyone else. It feels isolating. All I want to do is synthesize a feeling to share it with you and I am left chewing my tongue, talking in circles about the fireflies slowly dying on my sidewalk three weeks into October.
I keep thinking back to that week in March when I tried to kill myself. I want to tell him. I want to tell him because I have told nobody, but the words swirl and die on the tip of my tongue like the fireflies. I used to use my sparse student loan refund to try and buy happiness, and I guess it was a kind of happiness to know that I had something to look forward to, a special present coming to me from me in the mail. But it wasn’t real because it didn’t last, and the black water welled back up as soon as I opened my mail box and saw a package slip. It didn’t matter how sorely I had been awaiting whatever meaningless and overpriced lipstick I had ordered; all excitement dried to ash and blew away as soon as I didn’t have anything to wait on.
I am addicted to the inbetweenness. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. The torment of the unknown.
I don’t want to kill myself but I’ve been thinking about how I felt when I did. I am sad right now, and frustrated, but I don’t want to kill myself. I am finally insured again. The little plastic card absolving me of future medical debt (and a portion of my paycheck) arrived this week, and that did bring me some relief. I will owe the government the healthcare penalty because I was not hired quickly enough, but at least I have this small safety net that, should something happen to me, or should I get ill, I won’t be left in financial ruins. I have been putting my mom off about seeing a therapist with my lack of insurance. That’s not an excuse now. I have no idea what I’m afraid of.
If I had to make a guess and shrink my own head (which I do recreationally, as you know), I would say that I still, on some level, don’t feel worth it. I don’t want to die, especially not by my own machinations, but I don’t necessarily feel like this fucked up body+brain combination is worth investing much in. The bald and ugly truth is that, yes, I am 25 years and 6 months and 5 days old and I still don’t like myself. I have positive qualities I’m told, and I suppose I’m pleasant enough–God knows I do make effort to treat others kindly, as someone who has been on the receiving end of malice…yet I find myself nearly wholly unsatisfied with every atom of my composition. I don’t feel nice when I automatically make snap judgments in my head about people or assumptions about their behavior. When I catch a glimpse of my body in a mirror, I try not to physically recoil. When I think about my accomplishments, I think about the things that I have not been able to achieve, and the mountain of failure eclipses the molehill of success.
I have wanted to be a writer my whole entire life. I have read books voraciously, I have studied grammar, I have taken the most challenging English classes available to push myself into honing some kind of skill with words, but I am not motivated, and that is all that really matters. I am not motivated to write much of anything these days, and while part of it is definitely due to the fact that I self-sabotage, and part of it is due to this feeling of disconnection I have with the greater world, much of it is because writing is so god damned hard sometimes. It’s hard and I tell myself I would fail anyway, so why even waste time?
But all I do outside of work is waste time. I used to play video games every single day. Religiously I would plug my headphones in and turn my brain off, if only for a few hours. I would focus as best I could on leveling up or completing sidequests or, hell, making a Sim resembling myself work her fingers to the bone so she could live comfortably in a large house.
I haven’t played any games in a while, but I haven’t replaced that time with anything. Lying in bed scrolling on my phone is less productive. I read Reddit threads about paranormal activity, cringey experiences, life’s nagging questions, but I produce nothing and return nothing. I don’t comment because I’m shy. I don’t write anything but lesson plans. Sometimes I’ll think of a line and write it down, but like I said before, it all ends up getting pushed aside because I invariably hate it.
My tongue feels numb and I’ve been crying just a little bit through all of this. I need to get out of this bed and do something other than dwell on my perceived personal failures. I’m just so unmotivated to change even though all I do is rake myself over the coals, even in my dreams. I don’t let myself set goals really anymore because I don’t let myself feel like I’m worth the planning.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a really strong sense of self-worth and that needs work. I need to want more for myself than base survival…to develop into a more full and whole person instead of so many fragments.
This has been disjointed. Welcome for a moment to my brain. And I’m sorry.