futility

Round and round it goes. I’ve learned a lot. I don’t know if any of it is true.

I still seek, in a desperate, physical sense, some kind of “miracle”. Somewhere out there is The Truth that will set me free from all of this… there’s a right configuration of thoughts and beliefs that will unlock my potential, just like that… You would think that somebody who studied cults as a hobby would know better, that I would have internalized the knowledge that there is no such thing as absolution, that it’s all smoke and mirrors, nothing more than chemical manipulation…



This is why I like to describe myself as an addict even though I don’t do drugs anymore. (Well, also the fact that doing drugs as a child, even stupid cringe baby drugs, warps your brain for the rest of your life… every so often I remember this, and I become a little more resigned about how my brain is.)

I’m always looking for that last, PERFECT hit, the one that will cure me of all my cravings. The one that will free me from samsara, if you like. Yes, I looked into Buddhism too. It’s actually pretty interesting, underneath all the boring self-flagellating woo shit that my culture, ie Americans, imported. And by interesting I mean, they actually do have gods and hells. The idea of a finite hell is pretty nifty. But I remain unmoved; do you remember anything from before your birth? I don’t. Some people do, or claim they do, but I’m stupid and stubborn and therefore shall stick to what I know, which is nothingness. After I die, it will be as though I never lived at all.

So, for all my knowledge, I really should know better. But the heart wants what it wants, no matter how futile. I’m a bad father to my own inner child. I can’t bring myself to discipline her, even though it’s for her own good. You could make some kind of argument about how I once hit someone and now I don’t trust myself to do any kind of discipline. But I know better. I know about CBT, about radical acceptance— I used to know more things, but the holes in my brain are getting bigger.

I used to be on antidepressants. They helped a little, but I’m spoiled, entitled, lazy. It wasn’t enough for me, so I stopped taking them cold turkey. Actually, it’s pretty funny, because I was on Effexor at one point.

Yeah, that one. Supposed to be the big bad brute, Sideffexor. Brain zaps, nausea, headaches. My doc kept raising the dosage, too. I don’t remember where it was when I stopped— she seemed to believe she could lower my… whatever they call that cutesy little numerical survey, with the rote questions about how you’ve been feeling, if you want to hurt yourself, think you shouldn’t have been born— to zero, if she correspondingly raised my dosage. No, she wasn’t a very good doctor. Hey, do you think anyone ever lies on those forms? Lol, not me, of course not, I would never lie officer! Instead I simply made myself believe I truly had gotten better. A political truth, you feel me? From a certain point of view, it was true. Anyway.

Nothing. Well, not nothing— but it felt like nothing. A little bit of dizziness, a little tummyache. Felt like my eyes were crossed even when they weren’t. Certainly nothing in comparison to the devastating pain other users were suffering. Maybe my pills were always duds? Maybe I’ve never actually had “real” venlafaxine in my life. Maybe childhood drug abuse had funny effects on my adult drug use. Who knows? The doctors certainly don’t.

It’s like I’m completely insensitive, in some ways. Not in others, or else I would at least be financially solvent… I would have been a good, efficient little killer robot. I was stronger as a child, of course… before your brain finishes growing in, before you realize just how sick and twisted the world you’re living in is. Then all the trauma catches up with you, all at once, slams into you with crippling force.

As a teen, I didn’t understand what the crybaby comedians were talking about— being hit suddenly by memories of things you regret doing, being bowled over by the guilt or shame or humiliation. I didn’t feel bad about anything I’d done, because I was “just trying to survive”— you gotta do what you gotta do. (Except no, none of the things I did were actually necessary to survive— I never did anything reasonable like stealing food.)

(I was also a deathly-avoidant neet/hikikomori, so like, you know— fake as hell, paper tiger, et cetera.)

As an adult, not a day goes by where I’m not haunted by something stupid I did. Which is also most things I did. My childhood avoidance also meant I didn’t get to try things and fail as a child, when you heal quickly physically and psychically… I messed up everything I tried as an adult because I had never done it before, had no exposure to anything that wasn’t online. Of course I made mistakes. But they were severe, adult mistakes, and thus I became even more avoidant. I have a job now, but it doesn’t pay for anything. I’m still sponging off my parents, but so is most everyone else post-covid, so… whatever…

I wish I hadn’t developed the beginnings of a conscience. I wish I could get in on the grifter economy, since it’s apparently the only way to make money now… especially if you’re like me and have no built-up skills, no inborn talents, poor socialization… I don’t know what I’m going to do. I try not to think about it. It doesn’t help that the only voice in my head even slightly oriented towards responsibility is incredibly… hrm, what’s the word? Bad dog, bad dog, bad dog… beat yourself, punish yourself, you are garbage, you are evil, you are a weak little degenerate scum-sucker, and you deserve to suffer… asceticism is the only way out. Deny all desserts, toys, any “fluff”, any extraneous pleasure.

The sad thing is, if I had actually listened to that voice instead of just simply rebelling against him, I may have actually gotten somewhere. Bad dog.

What was the point of all of this, aside from vomiting up my guts for other people to gawk at? I’m still desperately chasing after absolution. I learned nothing about dukkha. I learned nothing, despite everything I know. I am still desperately chasing that one perfect hit. Delusionally, I fantasize about one of you having THE Answer, even though I’ve lurked here long enough to know that you don’t. But remember, I was supposed to already know that, to know that there is no “THE Answer”— that’s a lie made up to trick you into slave labor for the cult leader.

I’ve learned nothing.

I don’t want to face reality. I don’t want to deal with a long, slow, tedious, laborious grind, bit by bit, moment by dull, boring moment. I don’t want to do the right thing, even though I know there is no functional alternative. This is what I mean when I say that I deserve to suffer.

“I’m having a ***** of a time and I richly deserve it.”