“You know what? I was wrong. You are an idiot. My life happens to, on occasion, suck beyond the telling of it. Sometimes more than I can handle. And it’s not just mine. Every single person down there is ignoring your pain because they’re too busy with their own. The beautiful ones. The popular ones. The guys that pick on you. Everyone. If you could hear what they were feeling. The loneliness. The confusion. It looks quiet down there. It’s not. It’s deafening.”
– Joss Whedon
Half the time I do not know whether what I am experiencing is depression, or simple teenage angst, which everyone goes through during adolescence.
Perhaps, in believing myself to be weighted with some grand existential despair, I am but reaffirming to myself my own specialness, and thus preserving my fragile ego and sense of self.
Deep down, I fear failure and inadequacy so much I could rip my own heart out, and I fear life and the future and not attaining the happiness I wish to so much that each second that passes burns my skin, like a tiny drop of acid.
You see, with things like blogs, and books, and any medium which does not involve a person actually speaking to you, face-to-face, you tend to forget that there exists a person behind the words or the images or the drawings, a person just like you, in more ways than you can possibly imagine.
Stuck in our own heads, we often believe ourselves to be unique and different, when in truth, we are similar, in more ways than perhaps we care to admit.
Someone who has bad days where the clouds crack and fall down on top of their head like fluffy plaster, and they are lost in a broken heaven. Who bumps into door handles and stubs their toe and curses the world. Who feels slightly disgusted with themselves when they defecate or clear out their nasal orifices, because it feels dirty, unclean, animalistic.
Who, with every second that passes, is scared, and who goes to sleep scared, so scared they can barely breathe, and when they sleep they are scared, the fear whispering like black wings through their dreams, and when they wake up they are scared, like their chest has, overnight, transformed into a black hole, with the rest of their body being slowly swirled and sucked into it. Blackness upon blackness upon blackness upon blackness.
Shit stains every page of my life, every facet, from my parents and the people around me, to my very own grimy little heart, which quakes and quivers and quails so much on a daily basis that it is a miracle it still lives. I am a hive, buzzing with a million insecurities.
Everything I do has to be run beneath the microscope, the glass tilted this way and that until the inadequacy is magnified a hundredfold – and only then, in having confirmed my own unworthiness, am I satisfied.
So, in order to help a handful of my fellow human beings feel less alone in their agony, and for the sake of catharsis, I shall hereby write down every single fear rattling around inside my chest. Every. Single. One.
And then I will go to sleep, with the fear still inside me, and wake up, with the fear still inside me, and stare outside the window at the sun, with the fear still inside me, and quietly wish I was not conscious whilst continuing to plod along, hoping for the despair to trickle away and for normalcy to reign once more.
1. I can’t write.
2. I don’t have the grit or talent or skill or time or patience or connections to become a writer with the level of success I desire.
3. I do not possess the social skills to properly function in society and make people like me so they can help me survive in this world.
4. Every creative idea I get is shiny and pretty for a little while, whereupon the very next day they turn dull and tarnished and tawdry, and I shake my head at it.
5. Books have lost their magic: they’re just a confluence of ideas, with characters stuffed into them, as a way for humans throughout history to escape and amuse themselves and process life. As a child, I believed every story I read in a book had truly happened, at least in an alternative universe. I do not anymore. Books, and the stories within them, are all too flawed and human – just like us.
6. I will never make a true friend who can understand me, because no-one can fully understand another person and we are all alone, inside our heads. Isn’t it strange, that we all have eyes, cats and sheep and insects and humans? The last time I voiced a similar sentiment, the person looked at me as if I had grown caterpillars instead of eyebrows. So I will be lonely forever, and the prospect of that makes me sick.
7. I am afraid of socialising, which makes me isolate myself more, which makes me more depressed, and I get so depressed that I get depressed about the depression and then I start to wish for a secret doorway in the house I can slip through into another world, where I do not have to think.
8. Everyone who has achieved success seem to live charmed lives.
9. I will never be able to find someone to enter a romantic relationship with due to my anxiety and neuroticism and general craziness (see my last post, if you want to see a brief snapshot of craziness). And this means…
10. …I will never have children, even though I really want to, because they’re adorable.
11. I want cats, but you can’t have pets where you live and there aren’t any pet shops nearby so I am so filled with yearning for a cat to play with and love that it nearly kills me every second.
12. We live and die alone, inside our minds, without ever knowing what the point to everything was, and that sucks more than words can say.
13. What’s more, no-one cares about you or me or anyone in the world. In the end, we only care about ourselves – even if we’re going to die alone and sad and confused.
14. I don’t understand a single thing about existence; everything from consciousness to time to the stars puzzles me beyond words, and even though I know very well there are some things beyond human comprehension, at the same time, I experience so much anxiety regarding the ambiguity and incomprehensibility of existence that I spend a good ten minutes every night screaming into my pillow. Much good that does.
15. I feel ugly. Sometimes, I feel so ugly I could peel my face off. I doubt, however, that such an act would improve matters.
16. After yet another disappointment with a writing competition entry, despite being confident and sure in my heart when sending it in, my spirit, though not broken (the fact that I am writing this, and have not killed myself, shows that it is not) , is very badly squashed. It looks like roadkill, with only the eyeballs, staring up at me in silent agony, not mashed to a pulp.
17. I am too romantic and insecure and scared and impulsive and insecure and mad to get where I want to get in life.
18. I have no motivation to start on creative writing projects.
19. I hate my father more than words can say. I never thought it was possible to be so disgusted with someone, and, as a result, disgusted with yourself, as psychologically, we have a tendency to identify with our parent.
20. I try to think positive, but I don’t; I try to believe in the power of intention and positive vibration but I don’t; I try to believe in a God, but I don’t: so that leaves me alone in emptiness, blind and crazy.
21. I feel fat; too much time spent moping around at home, I swear, has caused extra blubber to accrete around my belly. Apart from my belly, the rest of me is stick-thin, like some gangly insect.
22. I don’t know if love is real anymore, and whether we just stay around people for how they make us feel, rather than true, selfless affection. For instance, in a situation where I could save my mother’s life by trading in my own, I would not do it.
23. I eat meat, and feel bad for doing so.
24. Everything is expensive, so even though we can eat I fear homelessness or not having enough, and then I fear that fearing such things will bring them about, following the rule of negative vibration, which I do not believe.
Really, that’s all I can think of now. Basically, here is how consciousness feels right now. Every second: ARGH. Every bad thing that happens: ARGH. Everything you see: ARGH. Everything you think: ARGH. Everything is so ARGH I have lost the ability to spin words to explain it, my hands empty of the metaphors I once used to frame my world. I hate everything, and I am so scared I could throw up, and hate myself for feeling this way when other people have suffered more and have much worse lives and then I begin to wonder what the point of suffering is and I can’t find a point so it all returns to a big, fat ARGH, forever and ever, when I’m awake and dreaming and always.