God, help me. I’ve been sitting here for longer than I care to admit. My mind has been reeling while my body acts to breathe life into my thoughts without falling too far behind my rapidly accelerating brain waves. I’ve questioned love, life, survival, religion, politics, goals, education, employment, hobbies, interests, and creativity all trying to find an answer to something, to anything, that might help me look forward to tomorrow.

I’m a positive person. I like to see the bright side of things whenever I am able to. I will not put on blinders toward the practical and real for the sake of my optimism. I want to believe things can be good again. I want to believe that one day soon I will be able to look at myself in a mirror. I desperately yearn for the feeling of worthiness.

I try to create anything I can if I think it will help me fill this void. I try to read texts on my interests, such as the human mind and psychology, that I’m just not smart enough to comprehend. Sure, I catch the jist of it but its true meaning eludes me.

It is screwing with me to feel like this. It couples with something I’ve known for some time now to create an impending disaster that I merely choose to avoid; the only part of death that scares me is the pain of the method by which I die. I’ve suffered enough types and strengths of pain to easily field that hurdle in stride. I’m not suicidal. I’m not implying that I am. But what is it to be suicidal? Having no discernible attachments, pleasures, or ambitions in life; nor the fear of dying – I think that about covers it.

I wonder if I didn’t fight and hide my depression as willfully as I do, if anyone would notice. Would someone try to help me? I suppose, though, that if I reach that point, help would no longer be of any use to me.

Help is what I need right now. I don’t need very much, not by worldly standards, though a massively unobtainable amount for most of my family and friends. I’m no different than anyone else. My struggles are of my own doing and I’ll be damned if my pride is going to allow me to accept the charity I so desperately need just to get a leg back under me. Just one leg and I can do the rest for myself and live in gratitude every second of every day thereafter.

Alas, money is not in my fortune. Happiness isn’t apart of my future. You could read this and ask yourself exactly why I am so certain of that, and the answer is so simple. For every instance that I am happy, I am miserable for being happy. I abhor the desire to smile and yet I dream of doing so. I loathe events in my life where food is involved and I resent myself and the entirety of my last 10 years of existence.

Just an if away …

I am particularly wounded by simple and complex things alike. Losing the first woman I’ve ever felt real love and desire for crushes me. The Cowboys suffering the injuries against the Giants this week just about knocks the bottom out.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to feel. What I do doesn’t change how I feel and these horrible feelings only make me want to do worse.

I try to write and it’s drivel. I try to sing and it’s flat. I try to drive and go nowhere. I try to make new friends and make dates and it highlights my miseries. I try to turn to family, casually of course, for a change in direction and they’re busy; wrapped up in their own lives and their own friends. I’m facing a mountain here and I don’t really know how to climb.

A developing side note – my own sister could actually make an unequivocal difference in my life, but she doesn’t. Instead she helps a friend with something temporary and rather trivial. I don’t expect much at all from her. She is the one, after all, who wielded the hammer as my coffin was being nailed shut last year. For that matter, my uncle and a cousin, a cousin who has been through roughly every devastating effect of my biggest problem herself, each could help if they so choose. They have the means. Between the three of them I’m betting that about 80% of my problem could be repaired. Then I could have a life; some happiness even. I’ve grown too weary to be upset or angry about it.

Hell, I’ve grown too weary of just about everything to do anything anymore, save for sex. And I’ve been doing that more and more lately, even alone, in anticipation of the very brief relief that follows.

Damn it. I’ve lost my grip …

It’s been pointed out to me recently that I haven’t updated my blog in months. November 10th, 2009 was the last update actually, and it was but a short little poem that I wrote about my daughter.

Well it’s been three months since I wrote that little poem and nothing has changed in that time.

Perhaps the truth is that little has changed. Some things have certainly changed. For starters, I don’t write on my blog anymore. A person I found myself very fond of is no longer around. I’m no longer employed.

I still don’t get into the details of who I’m fond of because it’s private, and someone taught me very well that private things should never be aired in any amount of detail. See, I do listen.

I’m not sure how I lost my job—maybe I did exactly as I should have that morning, and maybe I didn’t. I’ve never been one to take shit from anyone, but not even I can say whether it was foolish to stick with that character trait that morning.

I have started trying to reduce my existence. I suppose the only related secret is that I have been so stressed over it that I’ve allowed it to affect me so deeply.

As for why I’m doing it, that’s not a secret at all. Not to me, and not to any one person who reads this. I simply cost money to live and there isn’t enough of it to go around.

I can’t say anything about it in a normal way, resorting instead to using my blog, because regardless of how much thought or effort I put into it, I’ll be perceived as trying to induce a guilt trip or perhaps sounding unreasonable or childish.

Since I wrote that little poem, nothing has changed with the economy either. I’m trying to fight off my own thoughts that the economy is affecting my job hunt, but sometimes the inevitable reality is simply that things are what they are.

There’s no way to change them or fix them.

It still doesn’t help me sleep any better at night though. It doesn’t help me rest any easier during the day. Knowing that simply means that I must deal with it and move on.

But isn’t moving on about progress? I haven’t seen a lot of that lately.

I still flock to my most unhealthy addictions and obsessions without any regard for the consequences. Consequences, that I cannot control, that take their toll on me in ways that most can’t see and only I feel.

But then my feelings are another thing all together. I have so few of them anymore that I’ve begun to wonder if I really don’t care about certain things, or if the feelings I have just don’t register anymore.

I suppose there isn’t much of a difference, is there?

I wanted to write a blog but I’m not satisfied with what I have to write.

And now I’m cold. Had to go help get snow off the van. I wonder if she notices how my willingness to do little stuff like that is always high. I used to groan about having to do simple things like that, even with Kaytie. I have to eliminate all hesitation with that stuff to feel like I’m doing something.

It just doesn’t apply to everything.

Taking the trash out is one of those things. I have an issue with something and I won’t tell anyone what it is because it’s stupid. It’s still real and valid but it’s stupid and I’m embarrassed by it.

And it’s not one of those things were someone thinks something is stupid, but those around them wouldn’t actually agree. This is stupid and those around would agree, I know because I’ve mentioned it in minor ways to see.

In true dramatic fashion I’ve used a lot of bites of text to not say what it is. Oh well.

Do you ever irritate yourself? I do. I feel a compulsive need to over explain everything. Some times people think I do it because I’m nervous or because I’m stalling or even because I’m trying to belittle their intelligence. The truth is that the more agitated I become with myself over it, the more I see that I have very little control over it.

It’s how I word things, my phrasing, and it’s just there.

Maybe if I do finish learning Spanish it’ll help in that area. I’ll have to keep my phrasing short and sweet from a mere lack of knowledge, and maybe I can apply that to English as well.

I tell you though; this up and down bullshit is getting on my nerves the more I experience it.