Guilt.
Guilt is my prison cell.
6 concrete walls that confine me into an existence that I hate.
“Why guilt?” some of you may ask.
I feel guilty for the possibility that someone out there that I am not aware of would grieve upon my death.
People who are not there for me in life, yet would experience pain and self-blame if I completed my last task.
Knowing that I could possibly hurt more people than I know by finally ridding myself of the one thing that causes me the most pain –
That’s what confines me here to a joyless, meaningless life.
I need to be around people in real life. I need my basic value as a human being confirmed. Not by people at computers on the internet,
because it’s so easy to type and hit send. It’s so easy to say things you don’t mean. What I need is more than words. I need the nuances
that one can read from seeing another person face to face. Hearing the vocal inflections, the sighs, the momentary whispered gasps,
the jaw-drops, the softening of the eyes when someone empathizes with you. The true character of a person that can only be seen
eye to eye. I can’t have any of that.
At age 16 or 17 (I’m nearly 31 now,) I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder, then after a 1 month stay in a mental institution, I was
diagnosed with Borderline Histrionic Personality Disorder, which I have come to learn is usually a bullshit diagnosis used by
psychologists/psychiatrists/doctors who don’t care enough to REALLY get at the problem. Eventually, I was diagnosed with
Depression, Social Anxiety/Social Phobia/General Anxiety Disorder, and ADHD (without the hyperactivity.) ADD isn’t the official term
these days, but that’s what I have used to be called. Anyway…
I work 6 days a week at the only business that I feel has proven to me that it is worth my trouble, because it has given me slack when
I needed it. I have an understanding boss who seems like a cold man of steel on the outside, but is actually a man whom I’ve learned
has one of the biggest hearts in the world. I work so much for multiple reasons: 1- sitting at home alone and/or with an alcoholic mother
is unbearable. 2- I’m always broke. When my mind is forcing me to go through misery, I get this “fuck it” moment that hits me now and then,
and I spend money on something that will distract me from the pain. Car payment, health insurance, car insurance, fuel, food, medicine, doctor’s office
co-pay, cell phone bill. You’d think 10 bucks an hour and 6 days a week of work would easily handle that and more. No. Not when the government takes
a quarter of your income. I’m 31 years old and can’t even afford a shitty efficiency apartment near my job. I’ve never lived by myself. I always have to censor
who I am because I live with my mother who was born in 1952, and has a different expectancy set for what is “normal” than I do.
Crap. I have so much more to say but I’m getting interrupted and losing my train of thought. I guess I’ll have to end this post now.
1 comment
Initially, guilt is what kept me going. Though I had isolated myself almost 100%, I was certain that somebody would be affected. If you’re in the US, have you been in touch with NAMI (National Allegiance on Mental Health)? Perhaps they can point you toward some resources? If you’re struggling and near/below the poverty line, maybe there are other resources in your community, too. Perhaps you can see a therapist on a sliding scale? It’s great that you work. Both financially and as a distraction, work can be a big help. If you’re struggling to move forward in other respects (independence, etc.), maybe some support could help. Also, if your company has an Employee Assistance Program (or something similar), it might not be a bad idea to get in touch.