Me, myself, and irritating titles.

I’m tired of being me. Everything I’ve ever struggled with over the course of my life comes from being me. My mind is not made for contentment. Perhaps that’s the same for everybody. But it seems that most other people are able to come to terms with reality to some extent. They take comfort in Gods, or relationships, or friends, families, art, pets, or drugs.

Comfort is pretty thin on the ground for me, though I spend most of my time seeking it. I get brief hints, but as soon as I try to hold on it slips though my fingers. Nothing is ok. Nothing will ever be ok, at any point in the future. I try to tell myself otherwise, but on a deeper level I feel it.

I am the only one responsible for my experience of life. It is my fault. Literally, if something is off with the way my brain functions and perceives the world. The essence of my self is faulty.

Unfortunately, any attempts to fix this are contaminated by the fact that the one trying to do the fixing is broken. So any ideas that I have of ways to change are by definition maladaptive.

What is really required is full brain remodeling. Although since that would in effect erase the sense of self I currently have, replacing it with someone healthy, I’d be bound to resist that even if it was possible. It’s not that I like being miserable, but I am very attached to it. I am addicted to my own malaise.