Tuesday, August 09, 2011

you me everybody everybody

no one has claimed responsibility. no one will. maybe because i have demanded you give up your anonymity with no sense that by doing so you will be welcome. you're known to me, you must be to refer to 'in person', but no i don't know you. there's no one left in the world i can claim to know. and there's no one in the world who can claim to know me. strangers all, so it goes without saying we will cross lines we are ignorant of.

there are a bunch of lines in the sand i am well aware of, and this is me ignoring the fuck out of them.

i'm not sharing myself. this isn't for you. there is nothing about me that is not driving by selfishness most pure. this is for me. i'm not blogging for sympathy or validation. this is self-sabotage at its simplest. left to my own devices i will bottle things up until i implode. it isn't enough to write things out. these words must be read. someone else has to know, and i have to know someone else knows. not so they can do something about it, not so they can fix it or go white knighting on me, just so my state of heart isn't a secret. so this farce i act out is recognised for what it is and doesn't become too heavy. experience has taught me this and it wasn't an easy lesson.

this is self-managing.

i know it looks like attention-seeking. it isn't. it is for this reason i have taken to disabling comments on the rawer posts, as i do not want to be seen as inviting any sort of response.

it takes a long tine to get it, if you ever do. long time readers get it. lots of you are new. or not. i don't know, i've no idea who is reading or why. maybe this is flogging a dead horse. it seems it needs rehashing though. now. i don't want sympathy. i don't want advice. i don't want suggestions or empathy. i don't want validation. i don't want comfort. in fact, beyond reading this, i want you to pretend that nothing is wrong and indulge me in the pretence that everything is just peachy.

this isn't sharing. fuck, look at what i air here in public, and then take a moment to think about what i'm not sharing. this blog is a fucking weapon. it's a poison and you don't even know you're weakened. shall i go there? i'm going there.

this blog makes people fall in love with me. oh yes it does. let me count them...four. no, wait, how about five. that i know of. why, why, why, i don't know. because i'm 'sad and dangerous'. because this place reeks of confessional, it lets you buy into the belief that these 'truths' are some intimate trust between you and me, as opposed to me and the whole fucking internet. you start to believe you have some special insight into my character. you start to believe that you can save me. or fix me. or tame me.

i'm the catalyst of three separations. they would have occurred even if i hadn't been born, but i was born, and i was there, with my blog, and i'm the catalyst because people fall in love with me. i've cut people from my life because they crossed lines and assumed an intimacy, familiarity and level of trust that hadn't been earned and they didn't understand it. i've had people cut me out of their lives because that was the only way to preserve their marriage.

because i write this, and because you read it.

this is for me. i need this.

and it makes it really hard to write with this history sitting on my back and knowing that the point of writing is to be read, and knowing that being read just invites all that shit to circle around again. self-censoring comes out, and it bleeds on and on, until eventually nothing is written and everything is secret and all is pointless.

can i tell you my joints are on fire right now? i have hot glass wires in my arms. i have no nurofen. i have a headache. i have no way out. but i have to write this because ever since that well-intended email landed last night i have been churning. turmoil. in what my psychologist had called a 'state of extreme distress'. this has to be written.

why i wonder. kind strangers have emailed me previously with messages of support and warmth (i'm thinking of you, you, you and you in particular, who i have not answered and probably will not, but thank you). they were not anonymous though. strangers, but not hiding.

anonymity shouldn't bother me either.

but you said.

you fucking said.

you know this wires in my arms, they're hot glass, they're rusted nails, i don't even know any more, i've lived with this for so long i don't even know what it is i feel any more. you know i'm on a new medication and it is fucking with me. there's a daily alarm set for me to take my tablet, or else i'll get withdrawal within an hour, because i don't trust myself to simply remember to take it. there's a song plying right now, and the lyric repeated over and over is 'i hope you die' to chill lounge music by a singer who is calm and without malice. i cannot write for me any more. i cannot write a lie. without fiction nothing i do has any point. my identity has been taken from me. the identity i made for myself, the only one worth having, and it's gone. people who knew that identity still interact with it, that peeling chipped shell i'm not even touching the sides of. i can take no pride in my ability to at least do my job well, i can't even do that now, and they slap me in the face and leave me to drown and don't care if i am a bad worker, so i don't care if i am a bad worker, and my absenteeism is late blossoming, i never wagged school, i never wagged the job i fucking hated, but now my alarm goes off and i don't care, i don't even use that stolen day for anything, i just lie in bed with my eyes closed as long as i can, because i cannot face the world and there is no point to my being awake, and i'm planning this trip as a means to force me away from easy outs and my comfort zone, where i will have to reclaim some sort of determination and build myself over again on the other side of the world where no one knows me and no one will know who i used to be and i don't want to go, i don't want to go, i'm afraid and i'm tired and i can't even get out of bed in the morning, how am i supposed to set off into the unknown when i don't want to go and all the challenges sand lessons i'll learn have no point if i cannot write them out but i can't stay. i can't stay. i can't stay. i can't stay. this life draws closer to being unbearable with every minute i am awake and aware.

i'm turning into everything i don't want to be just to last these last few months to go on an adventure i don't have the capacity to survive. all you new people, all you old people, i fucking devour you. you're distractions. i need to be alone, i need solitude and silence but fuck i can't take it any more, i can't bear to be with myself any more, i hate what i am and what i have and what i have not, i hate the choices i've made and how few choices i have left in front of me, and i seek you out, you people, you distractions, you time killers. put your trivial voices in my head, cock in my cunt, get some skin on skin and be just a body for a few minutes respite before i go back to being a mind that just doesn't stop, and none of you are enough. none of you. even if you were once before. feed the hunger and the hunger demands more. i've fed all of you to the hunger, and now you're all used up and useless. is it the new meds? i don't know. i don't know. i have to start the increased dosage tomorrow. what will that do.

are tehse even emotions? i don't know. yes. no. i don't know. i'm flat and featureless, and all the turbulence of atmospheric burn up at the same time. maybe this is simulating emotions i think i should be feeling. but no. because i cannot tease apart this confusion. hurt angry mean little animal. lash out. it is instinct. there is no why. do i care enough to write this post? do i not care enough to not write this?

here are the consequences - you're offended. i am lowered in your esteem. you withdraw. any of you. all of you.

i can't find it in me to care. i don't know if that is the medication or me.

what judgement. i have none. i'll post this because this is for me. and i'll leave comments open this once, because this is for you.

i've lied to my head doctors to stop them from committing me on the spot. i'm suicidal and i don't want to be. i plan based on the intellectual probability that things will get better, one way or another. there is no hope emotionally, and i can't afford it.

and you said.

you fucking said.

you're "glad" i'm here with you.

hey, i'm just going to go into the chemo lounge over here and tell all these cancer patients who are in for the third fourth fifth round that hey! i'm glad they're here too! because they make the world a better place for being in it. or something. yeah, be happy about that.

is that what depression is? emotional cancer. thought tumors. malignant and metastasizing and spreading to everyone who enters my mind.

i'm not selfless. i take no comfort that my misery adds anything to your life. this isn't a tragedy the bard would write. there's no fucking romance, poetry or beauty in this. don't even fucking try it.

and you said.

you fucking said.

"You're never alone."

oh, i know it. oh boy do i know it. i need you all, i hate that i need you and so i hate you all. the only peace i find is when i am truly alone, with no one around and the threat of no one coming, nothing to hear, no means for me to contact anyone else. never alone. no. there's fucking millions of me, arguing and fighting and contradicting and being a confusion. and then there's all you. you worthless useless distractions. you calorie-free cardboard. you nothing.

you're always alone. i'm always alone. all that hallmark good feeling is so much nothing. maybe that helps you sleep at night. i'm alone. in my head. none of you in here with me. none of you reading my mind and doing exactly what i need when i need it, because none of you could if you could. none of you can get me up in the morning. none of you can do my exercises for me. none of you can make the decision to wait another day for me. none of you can do shit for me.

all this hand-holding, cry on my shoulder, i'm listening, curl up on my couch, it's nothing. it makes no difference. it did, once. before. earlier. when such small arms fire would have had effect.

that was years ago. you can't do shit for me now. it's nothing. it's proved itself to be nothing, meaningless, worthless, make no difference at all. because i still have to go back to being me when you trot off back to your life patting yourself on the back for a job well done. the come back is too hard. now i'd rather have no comfort at all. not even the pretense. it gets too hard. and now. now it's all about making you feel better for having made an effort to make me feel better. pardon me for once again displaying my selfishness; i don't have anything spare to help you feel better about yourself. go white knight at someone to whom it will actually make a difference, to whom it will actually help.

you said

"We'll help if we can. If you ask."

i'm not asking because none of you can do shit for me. you can't change a thing. i don't want help i want change. i'm not asking because i can't ask. no one who needs help can ask for it.

you said

"You're wonderful."

fuck off. i'm not some beautiful broken thing.

you said

"Don't ever stop."

don't ever tell me what to do.

you said

"I love you."

now ask yourself, is that still true?

all of this is true.

one day it will not be.
one day.
not today.


  1. Hey Oscar, you know you really are a grouch? :-)

    I'm not sure about your plan here; you're trying to warn this Anonymous person off loving you by writing this post showing how completely loveable you are. If you really want them to not like you, you need to learn to be less interesting, less genuine, less thoughtful and less funny.

    All of what you say is true. All of what you say is a lie. We are all alone and none of us can ever understand another. We are all one and all of us know one another through and through. It's okay to believe contradictory things at the same time, right?

    I don't pretend to know you, although I care about the you that I feel like I glimpse. I recognise many of the impulses firing through this post, because they resonate with feelings and self-destructive impulses I have felt myself. It could just be coincidence or a half-reflection through cloudy water.

    You can say whatever you like to all of us, but be kind to yourself. And if you ever need a shoulder you know where to find me.

    So there :-P

  2. Somewhere I quite understand the concept behind that email. It gets hard sometimes for us, your audience, to fulfill the role you've given us. (Yeah, boohoo, poor us.) We need to do a lot of trusting that just being here and reading you is really still all that is asked of us, that when you do need to know that people care, that our being here is enough for that, and that you yourself will have the strength to be your own white kni^H^H^H^H^H^H^H^H^H Baron Münchhausen.

  3. I wanted to say something deep and meaningful.

    "Deep And Meaningful."

  4. Well, clearly the person isn't someone who knows you well, or he/she would know the Pollyanna approach doesn't work. But he got at least one part right - that we're all here holding your hand, even from twelve thousand miles away, because we *can't* help in ways that are tangible, apart from reminding you as often as we can that we're here, we're listening, and we love you.

  5. You're not the only one to say it's hard to read this, be a friend, have any sort of connection.

    Reading does ask a lot, I acknowledge that. But. This is not a targeted communiqué like FB, twitter, or even livejournal. It won't pop in a stream of 'friends' who are an assumed audience.

    This must be my space. I have to fight with myself to keep it that way, and all readers are collateral damage.

    I would apologise, but I will only do this again and again and again, and the apology will mean nothing.