Incoherent and Inconsolable

It’s not really been a very good week for me. It’s not like anything particularly bad has happened; I’ve just been completely out of sorts.

Aside from Tuesday, where I spent much of the afternoon fixing a friends computer, I did very little throughout the week, save for catching up on TV. Whilst, in the first few weeks after I left my job, I felt a hell of a lot better, of late my mood has started to decline rapidly. My sense of self worth is now practically non-existent, I’ve had suicidal thoughts (though I still don’t think I’d actually do it) and I’ve even considered self-harm. After all, I feel like I deserve it. I’d been thinking about an “It’s a wonderful life” style scenario where I never existed. However, unlike Jimmy Stewart’s character, I suspect that my non-existence would have had very little impact on everybody. In fact, I have a horrid feeling that people would have been better off.

Regardless, I have been doing some slightly more productive self-analysis and I’m pretty sure I know why my life is so crappy. I think that I revel in my misery and, when presented with the opportunity to mess things up, I’ll take it. I basically need protection from myself. Without some sort of encouragement to take the right path, I’ll always take the route that will give me the most trouble.
I have wondered, in the past I feel that, sometimes, people in my life that I rely upon have deliberately steered me into harms way, whilst others have stood by and watched the catastrophe ensue. Am I just a plaything? Wind me up and watch the chaos ensue.

I feel like I’m just a joke to some people. A figure of fun. Sub-human and unworthy of any real respect.

I’m lucky, I do have some extraordinarily good friends and for that I am eternally grateful. Unfortunately they can’t be there all the time; they have their own concerns and their own issues to deal with. To be honest, though, I wouldn’t ask for help. It’s not really my way. I wonder whether, deep down, I feel like I can only rely on myself. Actually, I doubt that. I think I don’t ask for help because I don’t think I’m worth saving. I hope that those who have offered me a kind ear do not think worse of themselves because I have not spoken to them. It’s not you, not at all. It’s me. I just won’t ask anyone.

I should add that I am writing some of this post after having literally no sleep last night. I’m a little concerned that, of late, things seem to be playing on my mind so much, and it only takes a relatively minor concern to keep me up. Actually, the other part of it is not actually wanting to go to sleep. I stayed up and watched shows on the BBC iPlayer. Having the ability to catch up on so much TV is fantastic. Unfortunately, last night, it proved to be so addictive that I didn’t want to sleep. I was tired, I just couldn’t bring myself to rest my head on the pillow and let nature take it’s course.

I sometimes just want to be on my own. Other times I feel lonely. Often I feel like I just need to feel what it’s like to be in close physical contact with another human being. Sometimes I just need a hug or some sort of physical sign that I am not unloved.
I hate some much about myself. I look at how badly time has affected me. I’m fat, balding and hideous looking. A friend saw a photograph of me from 10 years ago and said I looked so different. So different and, although he didn’t say it, so much worse. Because I do look so much worse. I keep telling myself that I’ll feel like I can possibly seek out a girlfriend once I get myself in better shape. Unfortunately, the exercise only lasts so long. After all, when I do it, it seems to have no impact whatsoever. I tell myself I’ll eat more healthily, buy really, what’s the point. Even if I do manage to miraculously transform my physical appearance, I’ll probably still feel the same. Besides, I’m a depressive with no job who lives at home with his Mum. What woman would even consider me to be a prospect.

Is any of that going to change? I’ve had jobs, but they’ve all made me miserable. None of them have paid enough to allow me to leave home. Is any of that going to change?

Home is awful. When I’m left alone I can just about cope with things, but that so rarely happens. Most of the time I’m subjected to a torrent of abuse, all of which reinforces my negative self-image. I think I’m worthless and so does everybody who’s around me for much of the day.

Whatever I do to help at home is never enough. There’s always some thing I’ve done wrong, or maybe even forgotten to do at all. I never get anything right. My family see me as being distinctly second-class. They’ll help each other, but whenever I need anything they’ll typically turn their backs.

I try to be good, but ultimately I don’t think I am. I’m just not a nice person. I’m not as good as I want to be. My grasp exceeded my reach, and it does so by quite some margin.

All of my friends are moving so far away from me. They almost all have a career, a partner, a home or maybe even all three. I wouldn’t wish that they didn’t have these things, but as their priorities change I can see them fade into the distance. One day they’ll be so far ahead of me that I won’t be able to reach them. Let’s face it; I have no real prospect of ever catching them up. I’ve tried, but I seem to fall at every hurdle. Things will just work out so much better for them that they will for me. I’m glad of that at least. I couldn’t stand them to suffer as I have. They deserve good things. Maybe I don’t.

I have to stop myself from reaching for the sharpest implement I can find and using it to carve into my flesh. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe I just need to feel some pain that’s real, and not just in my head. Something for show and tell. I hear that self harm releases endorphins. Maybe that’s why I want to do it. It’d certainly be better for my health than chocolate.

Every year, I used to wonder if the next will be any better. It never is. This one has been worse than many. I no longer wonder whether next year will be a good one. I know that it won’t.

I don’t know whether any of this has made sense. As much as I have enjoyed writing, deep down I know I’ll never make a career of it. I’m just not good enough. And even if I was, I just can’t seem to see the way forward. I can do a lot of things, but all of them only to a mediocre standard. I’m simply not good enough at any one thing to be able to make a career of it.