14 Dec 2018

I find my mind in a really dark place, this morning.

"It's like I have the Cacas Touch - everything I touch turns to shit. Honestly, I can't seem to "get it together", to actually succeed at life, for a change..."

...perhaps fueled by being isolated from my family, in the current times of need and times of joy. Seeing the family game night posted, this week, (with me absent) is like a rusty nail, pounded into my heart...

In some twisted concept of being helpful, my mind thinks, "Perhaps I could go somewhere, where they could end my life, painlessly and peacefully; and then harvest my organs to help those who could better use them." I'm reminded of the blank spot, when under anasthesia, during last year's colonoscopy...

"You could just send the cremated ashes and any proceeds generated to help work down my debt, and hopefully help out my family."

(There was a more sinister variety of this particular morbidity, earlier this year, when I wondered how easy it would be to track down a snuff film, in production, on "the dark web". Not that I'm aware of any connections I might have to that, but... similar sentiments of "just process my body, like a cow, and be done with it.)

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I can not see the hope and joy, in my life, right now. It's not that it's not there - it's just that I'm in this ever-constricting tunnel vision that's focusing in on the pain and isolation and immobility and fucking oubliette that I'm walling myself into.

It's an intense anxiety that has me afraid to get out of bed - it took me half an hour of paralyzed crying there to muster the courage to write this... afraid to get out and do positive things, because I'm not certain that I won't instead do something incredibly stupid. "oh, sure. 512-472-HELP" ...but I'm so tired of "being processed by our mental health care system"...

I can not see the help being offered, if it's even there. ...and I try to step past the very real boundaries and limits that keep that help healthy, if those are there.

now, i'm just rambling and making excuses, and trying to "dull the blade"... I keep piling more poo upon the pile.

because i want to talk myself out of the pity pot I'm in? because I want to lash out, instead of trying to run away?

i don't know. i really don't know.

when i turn to face reality, I hate the grotesque mask of fantasy that peers back at me...