Somehow, typing information in a blog and sending it to the world is easier than talking to someone directly. Why is this? Perhaps it’s because there is no expectation that anyone will read it. Perhaps there’s hope that someone WILL read it and reach out. Tonight, it’s simply an experiment. I was in a dark place not long ago and I typed … Something. I don’t know what to call it. But I typed the shit out of it and when I poated it, I felt better. Better enough to sleep after hours of staring at the ceiling. So this is my experiment. I’m attempting to word vomit. To purge my body of whatever evil has taken over it. To rid myself of these thoughts that plague and eat away at my mind and what tiny shred of sanity I have left.
I’ve made a discovery tonight. I am absolutely terrified. It’s been a very long journey for me thus far. I’m the type of person that takes my negative feelings and bottles them up. The bottles go on a shelf and that’s where they sit for years. Not only that, but I also shoulder everyone else’s burdens and pains. I give 130% of myself to the world every single day. If someone I knew and was barely friends with needed it, I would give them the shirt off of my own back and suffer the cold alone because I know I can take it. What has all this internalizing of feelings done? I now believe that it has somehow made me deathly afraid of everything. Irrationally so.
I don’t care to explain the abuse I’ve suffered in detail. There’s plenty of people that have had it worse than me and I’m afraid that if I voice myself then I’m not only doing an injustice to those that have had it worse by potentially taking away attention that they need more than I do, but I’m also afraid of being judged. Society expects men to be strong, leaders, a rock that can be considered a foundation on which anything can be built. Yet here I am tonight, barely able to consider myself dust, unable to be held together by any adhesive and not strong enough to resist the most gentle breeze. But, the last five years I’ve suffered a lot under the tyranny of another person. I’ve been emotionally damaged to the extent that 6 months later, I’m still discovering certain trivial, irrelevant, completely innocent things now have the power to bring me to the floor.
I’ve lost my confidence. I’m terrified of losing those that are close to me, even though there’s no logical reason to explain why I would. Perhaps it’s because I really don’t have people close to me, save for a couple. I’m terrified that I’ll lose my daughter. Or worse, that I’ll be a disappointment to her. I’m terrified that I’m losing my will to move on. I’ve pushed through so much with sheer determination alone. And now, I’m just so very tired. I want to sleep. But I honestly can’t say with certainty that I want to wake up.
I’m terrified of what I’ve become. I take great pride in not seriously blaming others. I firmly believe that everyone should take responsibility for their own actions. But what does that mean in this case? Did I do this to myself? Did I reduce myself to what I am now? I don’t want to be this way and I didn’t used to be this way. I’ve gone from being a boat that anyone could climb on and safely breach a stormy sea to see the sunny beach front of some better place to being a barnacle, holding on as tightly as I can to anything and still being dragged under the water simply because I haven’t found the means or the ability to climb any higher.
I’ve heard ‘depression’ used as an excuse for a lot of action, or rather, inaction. I do not discredit those who suffer from depression. But like the panhandlers gathered 4 to an intersection all begging for money and retreating to their bag of supplies whenever they need a break, it’s hard to tell when depression is a reason and when it’s simply an excuse. I’ve considered suicide seriously twice in my life. I was hospitalized and not allowed to leave for a week. I’ve been on medication in the past. I have within the past few years gotten so worked up over things that my mind has simply waaay over analyzed that I literally ball up and quiver until my whole body aches and I pass out from exhaustion. That too, I now believe is fear. I say this as if I just had an epiphany, because I have. Tonight is the first time I’ve ever attempted to solve any of my own problems. Since the start of this entry, I’ve entered my warehouse of bottles and uncorked maybe one of them. But I’ve cried at least two. Still… I believe that’s progress.
I do not expect this will make a noticeable difference for me. I know that when I started, I was quivering violently and there was a feeling in my gut like someone had just punched me harder than I ever imagined I could be punched. At least, those two things are gone. I do not wish for comments, or attention, or sympathy. This is not a cry for help. I’m still discovering how fragile I’ve truly become and how far I’ve fallen from where I once was. I know now that I need to change that. There is a girl in my life that I truly hope will help me with that. This is a new development and one that I want more than anything to be mutually beneficial. It’s also a development that terrifies me more than anything I’ve mentioned so far. I guess this has worked. My eyes finally feel heavy. It is time to sleep.