thehusk

I dreamt a lot last night. It wasn’t pleasant (it rarely is.) I dreamt of doing terrible things. Or wanting to do them. Of being on the verge of doing them.

And I dreamt of figures from my past, in new contexts. But I felt their disdain for me, and knew it was well earned. That they despised me, and were not wrong to do so. I had pretended to be someone else, and my true worthlessness had been revealed.

I don’t know at what point I became worthy of such disdain. I feel it was long before my worst acts. Maybe my personality was always shameful. I was always shy, quiet, held myself apart from others. Perhaps I gave the sense that I thought I was superior. Perhaps I did think that.

I couldn’t take a joke, or teasing – I was hypersensitive. I didn’t understand what was going on. I remember being very scared, and that feeling never left. I felt out of place, and I didn’t know how to adapt to my new environment. And rather than looking outward and learning, I turned inwards and hid. I don’t know how much responsibility you can put on a 9 year old’s shoulders for that. But I chose cowardice, and every year that followed I doubled down on that choice. So I can’t blame others for identifying that, and not liking it. I don’t think hitting or spitting is acceptable regardless, but I can’t claim that they were wrong to despise me.

But still, I carry the anger from that, the hatred. 25 years on. Emotionally, I’m still that cowardly child. Possibly it’s some kind of wounded narcissism. I hate people for revealing my own weakness. I hate others, and I hate myself.

Sometimes I wish I’d stuck with therapy, and found some way to transcend the injured infant inside. But I couldn’t let go of my addictions. I didn’t have enough hope of anything better to see me through. I need my sickness – it’s all I have.

I want the pain of this to stop, but simultaneously I can’t stop inflicting it on myself. I don’t know how to stop hating myself, because there is no future version of myself that I don’t hate.

I am an awful person. From every standpoint. No matter your philosophy, your personality, your politics, pretty much everyone can agree that I am scum – the lowest of the low. I am one of those quiet figures that drift through life in the background, keeping their evil intent hidden until it’s finally exposed. You may know that something’s off when you look in my eyes, but it only clicks into place when the truth is revealed.

Unfortunately (for me), I’m not a psychopath. I feel the shame of what I am. The isolation of it. Living with myself is hard. I don’t sleep well at night.

The standard response is ‘so change’. It’s not so easy. When you’ve dug yourself a pit this deep, there’s no hope of ever getting out again. A few things you really can’t come back from. They contaminate your mind. It’s easier to just keep digging.

I’m less bad than I used to be, in terms of my actions. But my mind is as sick as ever. If you knew the things that go through it on a daily basis, you would hate me, and you’d be right to. I hate me, when I see myself objectively. But still, that part of me persists. The monster rages inside my head. All I can do is keep it on a shorter leash.

The monster is me, in a deep sense. I moderate myself, to try and limit the pain I cause to myself and others. But it will always be there – it’s too integral a part of myself to let go. It would be like cutting off my limbs. I can’t imagine living without that part of myself. It’s horribly contaminated and warped, and there’s no healing it, but it’s integral – it’s essential.

It’s debatable whether I should kill myself simply to rid the world of this sickness. When considering the effects on family I think probably not. And I’m too afraid anyway. But that means living with being this terrible person. And that hurts, a lot. I feel like shit, because I deserve to, because I am a piece of shit. And there’s no way out of that awareness. No amount of good works or volunteering or charity change what I am. I’ve really tried to pretend I’m a decent person. I’ve been through therapy. I really tried to starve that part of me. But it changed nothing. Now mostly I just want to numb the awareness away. Which helps in digging my pit ever deeper. My own little private hell.

I’m stuck in a very strange position. It seems that overall my life is not worth living, so from a purely self-interested point of view I should probably kill myself. But I’m still very much attached to the idea of life, and afraid of death. So I instinctively don’t want to do it. I also believe that it would devastate my family, likely causing them greater suffering than I’m in now. So I also shouldn’t do it from an objective moral viewpoint, at least as long as my parents are still alive and so invested in me.

But when they pass on, or when something gets significantly worse, then I should do it. So I should be trying  to overcome my attachments, and my fear of death, so that I’m ready, when that time comes, along with preparing my method. But I have no real idea how to go about that, and I feel very little motivation to do so, because the parts of me that don’t want to die are still strong.

I have very little motivation to do anything. I don’t want to die, but I don’t much want to continue living like this either. And I don’t really believe that a worthwhile life is possible for me. It’s this weird in between space.

I am the ghost of Christmas depravity. Don’t worry, you have to fuck up real bad to end up here.

I’ve made myself alone, always. Even when surrounded by people, laughing and smiling. What I’ve done is always there, in the background, separating us. If they only knew…

There’s no way to make it ok, or wipe the slate clean. I have to live with what I am, with the fear and shame of it. I am not safe to be around people – not safe to exist in the same world or breathe the same air.

I deserve worse than this. To be trapped with the knowledge of what I’ve done, the full awfulness of it, with no escape – that would be hell. Right now there are the distractions of life. But who knows what the future holds?

This is not remorse. Remorse requires turning a page, renouncing the past. I’m the same monster I always was. I’m just slightly more self-aware. I know how wrong what I am is. But that changes nothing. I am the same. It’s as strong in my mind as ever, maddening and intoxicating.

There’s no recovery, no coming back from this, no peace to be found in this world. Only the hope that when I finally die, that will truly be the end of me. That I will return to earth and grass, air and water, leaving no trace to stain the world.

If anyone reads this, don’t let yourself end up here. Find someone, anyone, who you can open yourself to, and be real with. Before it’s too late, and you’re too far gone.

I am a fantasist. I’m massively emotionally invested in things that are impossible in reality. Which generates endless despair. But I don’t know how to stop wanting what I want. Some things just feel essential.

My fantasies are also terrible. The sickest, most deplorable things you could imagine. And yet they also feel wonderful and great. So that’s a massive headfuck. Huge amounts of shame, guilt, fear, and self-hatred. But it also feels amazing.

So that holds me back from pursuing anything real. I can’t let anyone else see the sickness inside me. And I can’t give it up. I can’t contaminate others.

So my life has no meaning. I want the pain to stop, but it’s not strong enough yet to overcome fear of death. I want someone – I don’t want to be alone anymore. But I can’t – I don’t deserve to be with anyone. I can’t pretend I’m worthy of being with anyone. I have nothing to offer anyone. No one could see the sickness in me and not be disgusted.

My life is pointless. Just try and prepare for when things get bad enough, then kill myself. That’s it. No ambitions, no realistic hopes. Just sick fucking fantasies, and sad delusions, and shame, regret, fear, self-hatred.

Still, maybe if I tell myself this often enough something will shift in my brain. I’m so, so tired of being this.

I’m so insanely alone, and hopeless. Can’t pretend I don’t deserve this. But I don’t know how to live with it. I’m so tired of carrying this weight, all this longing, regret, shame, self-hatred. I want to go back, to before I did this to myself, but there’s no going back. I want to go forward, but forward is death, and I’m scared. I’m scared of somehow becoming stuck like this, a sad eternal echo. So I delay, playing for time, hoping for some kind of magical reprieve, or to uncover some hidden understanding of reality that will remove my fear.

I don’t want to be alone anymore. But I also can’t let anyone in. I’ve truly screwed myself over.

The thing is, I don’t know how to tolerate feeling like this. The sheer fucking loneliness of it. The self-hatred. The shame. The despair. The regret.

I keep telling myself in my mind ‘you’ve got to find some way to cope with this.’ But I have no clue. My mind is constantly tearing itself apart, looking for a solution. But there is no solution. I have irretrievably fucked my life up. There’s no removing this stain. No making it right. No way to make myself acceptable to others. So I will always be alone.

I don’t know how to accept that reality. How to live with it. It drains all possible meaning from the world. So I desperately fantasize over some way to break through those logical constrictions, hurting myself even more each time the reality is made clear.

And yet I feel like I should somehow be able to cope with this experience, to function and give the appearance of normalcy. To get through each day without wanting to curl up in a ball and cry. To avoid passing my despair onto family members who don’t deserve it, I should find some way to live with this. I just haven’t got a clue what that might be – it seems unbearable. How can you be this endlessly alone and not go insane?

There is no hope. There is pain, tiredness, longing and sadness. And fear. Boundless fear.

But presumably, this pain will come to an end. Though it may get far worse before then.

Perhaps I will somehow find the courage to end it by that point. But if not, it will come to a natural conclusion.

The average lifespan is under 80. Knock several years off that for depression and chronic isolation, plus a few more for lifestyle factors. It could easily be less that 40 years. Even less if I get a terminal illness.

What’s 40 years, given the span of the universe? A blink. The last 33 have gone by in a blur. It’ll be over in no time.

No matter how bad it gets, this will come to an end. Unless there’s a hell. In which case I’m truly fucked

This despair will fade back into the background. Logically I know that. Tomorrow it will be covered over by anxiety, and distraction, and possibly even some brief excitement. But right now, it has me. And everything is wrong. And nothing will ever be ok again. But it’s fine, even though it’s not. Nothing to see here. Move along.

I want to do some truly terrible things. I don’t think they’re ever going to actually happen. But just the awareness of that side of myself leaves me feeling afraid, and isolated from others. I’m the bad guy in everyone’s else’s story.

I suppose it’s because although I’m a bad person, I’m not a psychopath. So I still crave social acceptance & safety, even though I know I can’t have it. Awareness of the immorality of my desires terrifies me, because it’s a reminder that everyone is a threat. Anyone who saw the truth about me would pose an unacceptable risk. Essentially I’ve made myself an enemy of humanity.

So I have to isolate myself. But that carries it’s own fears. We’re tribal creatures – the lone wolf doesn’t live long.

I’m terrified of something beyond death – of judgement. Of the evil within my mind finally being laid bare for all to see. Of punishment. That seems like the only real reason not to end myself, beyond just a blind will to survive.

I don’t really know what I’m doing here. I’m a monster who’s failing to live out it’s impulses. A cowardly monster. This should be the bit in the story where I escalate my crimes, and the authorities finally track me down. Instead I’m just hiding, waiting, fantasizing, pretending to be normal. My past could still easily catch up with me, but until then…what? Realistically, I’m not going to reform, or suddenly see the error of my ways. It’s gone far too deep in my head for that. So I’m just waiting for the end – for  the world to tear my life from my hands, and force me to face death.

I’ve made connection impossible for myself, through my actions, and what I’ve become. But large parts of me don’t realize. They go on longing for something that’s hard to define. The ability to relax and be myself around someone. Intimacy. To truly care for someone other than myself. To be known, understood, accepted, loved, as I truly am. To be ok with another person. To be acceptable.

But I’m not acceptable. And I never can be, regardless of what I do from here.

So I’m continuing to live because I’m afraid of dying. But my mind is driving me crazy, desperately grasping out for any way to make a real connection, when it’s just not possible. A real life is not possible. I live a twisted kind of shadow life. Still, I can’t say I don’t deserve this.

It appears my continued existence basically comes down to fear and attachment. I am more afraid of death than I am of the pain of life, intolerable though that often seems. Or possibly more afraid of what might wait beyond death (comeuppance/karma.) And I am attached to the positive possibilities of this world. To fantasies of being a different person, or memories of who I used to be. To beauty in all it’s forms.

So it would seem to follow that until my fear of this life overwhelms my fear of death, or my attachments sufficiently diminish, I am stuck here.

The sensible response would be to focus on making the best of things. To minimizing my suffering, and appreciating whatever positives I can find.

I just can’t seem to bring myself to actually do that. The motivation isn’t there. It seems I won’t even lift a finger, even to save myself considerable pain down the road. There’s no hope left in me. There’s no vision of the future, no point where I can tell myself I’ll be ok. There’s no carrot – only a slightly smaller stick (that wasn’t supposed to sound like innuendo.) So I struggle to push myself through anything difficult or painful, knowing that my reward will be to briefly feel slightly less miserable.

I suppose that’s the essence of depression – when you lose the belief that things will ever be ‘ok’ again, and thereby lose your drive to try to make things less shitty for yourself.

I don’t have it in me. To end my life, or to make my life worthwhile. I just want to give up. I want the pain to stop. But it won’t. It only gets worse. And I’m too much of a coward to end it. I’ll just suffer on miserably, until things finally fall apart, and even then I’ll cling on. And when death is finally forced on me, I’ll still deny the reality of it.

I want so many different, conflicting things. Delusional things. Terrible things.

Rationally, I know they will not make me happy. But that doesn’t change anything. Because I don’t believe anything could make me happy.

So my mind is consumed by one fantastical obsession, then the next, and on. Always attempting to escape from the awful reality

I try so hard to maintain some kind of internal coherency, some sort of balance. But the truth is there is no ‘objective me’, detached from all the delusion. I am the most disgusting sociopath you can imagine, and also the most innocent idealist, all within the same head.

My reasons for not killing myself are emotional. My reasons for wanting to end myself are also emotional.

I can’t be otherwise. I have no ‘self-control’. There’s no ‘self’ to control. Just these whirling, raging, maddening emotions, like cats fighting in a sack. What will I do next? Which will win out, from moment to moment? I can predict, based on past behavior. Probably I won’t start randomly attacking people in the street. Probably I won’t suddenly become super-functional and get a high-powered job. Probably I will continue on deteriorating, as my emotions tear me apart.

I can predict, but I cannot control. And yet I must also maintain the delusion that I can somehow regulate this churning sea.

Exit, and devastate those I care about. Somehow overcome the fear of death. Face the possibility of some worse punishment beyond.

Or try to find some way to stick around for another 20+ years, as my body continues to deteriorate, and the pain grows. Find some way to survive in a world I don’t want to be in. Endure the constant anxiety and exhaustion, as contentment becomes an ever more distant memory.

This is a recipe for depression. There is no hope. Things are bad, and they will get worse.

All you can hope to do is limit the suffering along the way. But your suffering, or the suffering of those you care about? And suffering in this life, or some unknown beyond?

I somehow need to overcome this impasse in myself. To either decisively end things, or to fully commit to survival. My current approach is the worst of all worlds – failing to function, exposing myself to ever greater pain and suffering.

My emotions are in a terrible state. They refuse to accept the reality I live in. But they also won’t accept leaving it once and for all.

What do you do when you’ve made connecting with others impossible? When you entire existence is a dirty secret. When every positive encounter you have is contaminated by the knowledge of what would happen if they knew the truth. And you can’t ever risk anyone knowing the truth.

I may be a monster, but I’m still human. I still have the same drive to escape isolation, to seek out company and fellow feeling. To feel accepted, related to, understood.

So there’s this constant nagging demand within me to reach out, to somehow breakthrough the wall that separates me from others. But there’s no way of satisfying that need – of bridging that chasm. The people who can relate to the real me are so tiny in number, and they’re all terrible people just like me. I wouldn’t want to talk to anyone like me.

It’s a funny kind of torment I’ve created for myself.

Parts of me want so badly to stop. That hate what I’ve become so much. But this stubborn resistance refuses and clings to existence. So I post here, in an attempt to relieve that feeling for a while. So for a time I can pretend that it’s not hopeless. In hopes of feeling a little less alone. Sometimes it works.

I’m not a cutter – generally averse to injury of any kind. But something to interrupt these feelings – this despair – that appeals right now.

This state will not last. In a few hours, it will have been pushed down again by some form of distracting dopamine. The reality will be suppressed, until tomorrow morning. When I will again spend hours torn between the savagery of my psyche and the exhaustion of my self-image.

I need a personality transplant. This one has no future. Tear it out, and replace it with one that doesn’t respond to reality in such a dysfunctional way.

I’m not constitutionally capable of reform. Too damn stubborn. The rot runs too deep in me. I refuse. I shall cling to my misery, even as it tips me toward annihilation.

Fear of suffering. That’s my primary drive and motivation. But if that’s the case, why isn’t ending it the rational choice? If there’s probably no existence beyond death, and probably no monotheistic God to punish me, and probably nothing I could do to avoid such punishment anyway, then…why am I enduring this? I’m suffering, and my suffering only gets worse as I age, and continuing to live risks exposure to really terrible suffering.

But part of me is resistant to that logic. I fear death. This animal wants to survive, and replicate. Even though death is inevitable, and replication extremely unlikely.

Suicide seems the obvious choice, at least from a purely self focused point of view. Ending my suffering versus significantly increasing the suffering of family. But I can’t even seem to bring myself to make that choice. The irrational attachment to life is still to strong.

I’ve made connection with others impossible. Because of the things that I’ve done, and seen, and cultivated within myself. Nobody could see the truth about me and still want anything to do with me. At least, no one morally sane. No one I would want in my life.

Evil is an emotive term. Let’s say that I’m sick. I’ve made myself sick. I’ve grown this side of myself that finds pleasure in wickedness. And I don’t think that’s something that’s ever going away. It’s not something you can unlearn. It’s a key part of reality – once you’ve seen it, you can’t forget.

The things I’ve seen, and felt – they’re incompatible with a decent society. Repulsion is the logical response.

So I can’t let anyone see this twistedness in me. I have to pretend, and keep that side of myself on a leash.

I don’t want to deceive others into caring about the pretend me. The me that is harmless. I don’t want to contaminate the lives of good people by involving them with my corruption.

But I also long for connection – to be seen, understood, accepted – even as I recognize that it’s not possible.

So…I’m not really sure what I’m doing here. I’ve made it impossible to pursue a meaningful life. I’m still holding on to the idea of it, without having any way to move towards it.

I don’t know which is worse – to attempt to deceive others into caring for me, and suffer the guilt, fear, and loneliness that result. Or to remain in complete isolation – and suffer the longing, regret, and loneliness that accompany that path.