Fuck. Why the hell is this so hard? I can’t even seem to take a breath without feeling like this pus-filled organ taking up residence inside my ribcage is going to burst and leave a massacre inside of me. And I have no idea why. There’s no reason I should feel so incredibly bereft. Is this what depression really is? Feeling like the world should end from the massive sorrow inside until we all drown in the tears of one girl sitting alone in her bed staring out a window at a beautiful sunny day that she can’t even begin to feel because the weight of her sadness makes the trees look mocking against the harsh sunlight.
I’m being dramatic and I know it. I wish I did have a chemical dependency and I completely understand why so many people do. There must be so much pain and bitterness in the world that we’re starting to understand that sometimes it’s better to be numb than to feel the pain. Isn’t that why we have hospitals and pharmacists who shove pills at us when our bodies are broken? To numb the pain. What if the pain is lodged so deep inside it’s taken root to your soul and it leaches off whatever joy there once was but shines no longer?
It’s like emotional cancer. If I say those words out loud, someone who’s lived through physical cancer will get offended. Because you can’t express yourself properly without offending someone. It’s literally impossible. You can’t stand against injustice or plead your misery without someone deciding that you are wrong and now their feelings are hurt which always leads to anger. I wish I had that anger. I wish I could be so stubborn in my belief of anything that I would complain about it along with everyone standing at my side until it’s a hive mind of disagreement. That’s all it is; we find our tribe based on what we hate and band together with others who hate the same thing. It would be a beautiful bond were it over something universally accepted as good and light but inside it’s respected and encouraged out of hate.
I digress. The real issue here is my complete inability to battle the darkness inside and keep fighting. I wish I could believe in a god. I don’t think it matters which one. I want to feel hope and love and like there is still some good left in this life. I can’t even shit out a sequel to a book that I wrote with so much enthusiasm and vigor that I don’t see how I’ll ever be as proud of anything for as long as I live. Even that was short lived as the pressure to finish the next one crushes down on me. Then what? It won’t end there, they will keep coming and they will expect more and I’m afraid I won’t have anything left to give; I’m not even sure I have a second one to give. What if all I had was that little part of a story and that was all? Maybe it was supposed to end there; maybe I was supposed to end there and just accept the mediocrity of never really finding my purpose.
There isn’t anything wrong with my life when I really think about it. Sometimes I feel like I have friends and a steady job that doesn’t make me want to kill myself and I’ve replaced human contact with Netflix and Hulu and that’s kind of alright with me. People always let you down in the end so if I just don’t let anyone get close enough to warrant my faith or trust, then I don’t have anything to worry about.
Besides, if I start letting people in they might see that I’m really just a talentless hack with a strong desire to be high all the time so I don’t have to feel anything. Isn’t that what Tosches and Thompson said? Come to think of it, all the writers I admire so much have all said something to that nature. It’s almost like we accept our complete failure as human beings and turn to drugs and alcohol just to cope with the maelstroms raging against our ribs. It’s seems wrong to put myself in that club; I’m not a man nor have I lived the years they did. I don’t think that men have the patent on feeling like that, it’s just you never hear about a woman who does. You don’t hear stories of women writers who smoke and drink and swear and seek out faceless, nameless casual sex just trying to feel something. Fuck, I sound like a small town prostitute whining about the bad rap I got in life.
I’m not blind, I know I’m supposed to be witty and brilliant and beautiful and loving and bond with my fellow sisters in the House of Menses, but fuck, that sounds terrible. I see the pity on their faces when they see me and my life and imagine how lonely I must be without children and a husband or wife. And with every birthday I just look even more ridiculous. They don’t understand that there are some women in this world just like there are men, who are physically incapable of love.
I’ve never really been in love. At least not the kind that didn’t turn out to be based on lies. I’ve only ever loved lies and that seems tragic and poetic in a way. It might even explain why I spent so much time living in a day dream where I’m the hero and I fall for the handsome broody costar and we spend our days and nights pouring the words out of our damaged souls and smoke our cigarettes, shaking our heads at everyone else. I’ve been living the same day dream for so long now that it feels real; it’s become a part of me. I want to say it’s the reason I feel so disconnected from reality but the truth is I’ve been doing that since I was very young. Like I knew as a child that my life was going to be terrible and dark and void of all the pretty things Hallmark cards tell me should be there.
This is why I will never be a marketable writer. I don’t have some make believe land of wizards to tell anyone about and I’m completely uninspiring. The only dribble I have to throw at the canvas is emptiness and bitterness and what perpetual turmoil feels like. No one likes a party pooper and I will without a doubt shit all over any good time there is to be had, and this is why anything I write will always ultimately be for me. Just here now I’ve shat out 3 pages of crap when I should be shitting over the sequel. Is this what being a writer is? To live in constant pain because the words are trapped and trying to get them out is like sweating rice out through the pores? I’m exhausted.
I am a meek and poor example of what it means to be alive. If the weak are to inherent the earth, I fear we are all doomed as the truly weak are sitting in bars at noon drinking themselves to death and writing gibberish that will bring nothing but sorrow to those who’ve been misfortunate enough to read their words.
In fact, you should probably stop reading right now and go hug a loved one and throw a Frisbee for your dog in the sunshine lest this melancholy infect you too. This is the real zombie apocalypse. I am a zombie feeding off the flesh of those around me and sucking them dry in the hopes that I can feel even just a little of the happiness they do. I look upon them as a dying man might regard a sunset as the life drains from his body; with reference and awe.
misadventuresinreality 