"Are you ok?" asked the mysterious Kylee today.
Since she's just a spam email promoting online dating, I feel comfortable enough in her present to say "no, I most distinctly fucking am not". Kylee nods sagely, being a producted of my own stunted (un) imagination, and then goes off to butter some parsnips with some fine words.
Three years of diagnosed depression, and the last two weeks have pushed me from the "aw crap life sucks" phase to gibbering, eye-clawing despair. Nothing particularly disastrous has occured, indeed there's some good news to be found if you look hard. But, as it happened three years and three months ago, I've come to the end of my rope. I can no longer suck it up and keep buggering on. After 28 long years, I think it might be fair to think my "suck it up" tanks are at full capacity, and keep buggering on - doing what? Going where?
I've got nothing going for me.
True, roof over head, loving parents, furry animals, count yourself lucky, etc, etc. But I have no useful skills, no recognized talent. My career so far has consisted of dressing up as fictional characters and trying not to scare children. That's right, the only job I've been good at is not being me or anything to do with me. And even then I've managed to screw it up. Even with nepotism my artwork was too crap to be published for free. The handful of strangers who have seen any of my work and been impressed can be counted on the hand of something without a hand. Once I aimed high and failed spectacularly. Now I can't even aim low and get something to show for it. What have I to offer to the world or anyone in it? Apart from a length list entitled "what NOT to do", of course?
I'm just so tired. Too fucking tired.
I've been fighting this uphill battle and it feels like I've just twigged I'm actually on a flat surface. Things are not going to improve. They are not going to get better. There is no happy ending to be found. And a significant volume of people I know seem much happier when I have no part in their lives - and quite right, too. What is there to go on for? A few TV shows and books? Getting another year older and having nothing to show for it, not even contentedness? They say there are only three goals in life - power, material possession and spiritual enlightment. I'm fucked on all three. I genuinely cannot believe the world had in any way been improved by me living in it, and it'll take a brighter mind than mine to spot a future that can be any better with me as part of it.
You know, once I went for a job interview and I did a questionaire that showed I had surprisingly low self-confidence and esteem. So they told me that. And that I handn't got the job. And, hell, I was almost relieved, preferring the existentialist rut of unemployed stasis to working for a living. I'm trapped by my own personality flaws, unable and unwilling to break free. Because, to be honest, what is the point in doing either? I'm tired and useless and alone, entirely by my own fault. I can't ask for pity or sympathy, and fuck knows I would be hard pressed to find anyone willing to provide it.
I've wasted my life, yet I'm not sure it could have been used anyway.
The cracks are spreading. The life goals conversations, the "what do you want to do with your life?" questions are striking again and again. I have no answer. I just want to stop this hurting, but there's no escape left. I can't parody a BF story, write a YOA script or even make a shitty youtube video to put up on the blog. My efforts come to naught. The feeble illusions I have of achievement can't distract me from the truth.
I shouldn't have rung for that ambulance.
I don't know what death is like, but I know what it feels to lose consciousness from blood loss. Imagine your thoughts, your mind, are beads on an abacus gradually getting further and further apart. No pain or doubt or frustration, because consciousness is spread too thin. And I have reached the point I am craving that peaceful oblivion more and more. Every hour awake feels like torture in comparison.
Yeah, maybe I'm turning into a self-pitying emo who should cowboy the fuck up. But I can't - I don't have the strength to even try.
I'm running on empty. I have reached the end of my wit's tether.
The pros column is empty and the cons column needs extra paper.
I don't want to hurt any more, I'm not strong enough to bear the pain.
And, I dunno. Maybe a good night's sleep and some proper food might make me fit and dandy, but I doubt it. Giving $200 to a homeless scrounger gave me no pleasure, no smug sense of righteousness, it didn't even make me feel any less guilty. I don't feel like I've made the world a better place. And I don't think saying no to him would have helped either. I can't do anything right, and I can't stop the hurt.
Stop the world. I want to get off.
So sorry for the inconvenience.