Love's Labor Lost

I’m distant. If you know me, this is no fucking newsflash. I don’t really have a problem connecting with people so much as staying connected with people. I’ve spilled a lot of proverbial ink on this and why it might be. In a nutshell, low self-worth, anxiety, moving around so much as to never develop very strong connections, etc. Plus I much prefer face to face interaction and, well, with being in constant pain, I just don’t leave the house much. This is less to explain or excuse myself, but to show some work I’m putting in.

So I have an online friend. A very lovely online friend of recent acquaintance. We talk a lot, and in the short time I’ve known her, I’ve grown to value her counsel and perspective. We hit it off and fell into a fairly easy, fairly regular discourse. It was nice.

After a month or two, she pointed out that I essentially never say hi first. I gave her my pat explanation that it’s just sort of how I am, and that, while it might not look like it, I am grateful for her contacting me and our continued discussion. At this point, most people don’t press. But then, most people would simply fall back to interacting with me on Facebook, or take an “I’ll see you when I see you” attitude. But I’d never see her at Shadowland as she lives across the country, and she’d never see me on Facebook because she loathes it. So the ball would be entirely in her court to carry the weight and pace of our friendship.

I know this is unfair. I know this is basically the spot that I’m in with most of my friends. I know this is why I am rather isolated. I let it happen anyway.

But she asked me to bear some of the emotional labor burden. She was… not optimistic. She wasn’t wrong to be so, frankly. However, the next day, I messaged her. And then again soon after. It feels fucked up to me. Unnatural. Like being aware of my blinking or breathing. It feels forced. Because it is. Not the relationship or the ensuing conversations - those are perfectly fine. But the reaching out feels messed up to me.

So of course I had to analyze the shit out of it.

Ultimately, I feel grateful for the time, effort, and attention that anyone wants to bestow on me, and I hate feeling like I’m asking for more. Contacting someone feels like asking for more. As such, I sit like a fucking barnacle (not bragging about penis size, but read into it what you will) and wait for the world to check in on me. NOT because I want everyone else to expend their emotional labor, but because I ultimately feel like me saying “hi” is me trying to take from a person.

I know. I KNOW. When other people reach out and spontaneously say hi to me or check up on me, I view it as a near mystical gift. When I do the same, I view it as some horrible, needy ploy for love. I KNOW this is stupid. Many people profess to like me, for no conceivable reason than that they, in fact, like me. They would probably like it if I bestowed that mystical gift upon them. It might, in fact, be WILDLY SELFISH of me to not repay their consideration in kind.

Okay. So it’s that self-image thing. All I have to do to start connecting with people more is to stop viewing myself as poisonous. Gotcha.

I can’t imagine that there’s a level of empirical evidence that will make me feel like I’m desired as a friend, lover, etc. So it has to be me. Something inside. I have to begin the internal work, likely the seismic shift, of trying to view myself as a benefit to others’ lives. I have to start trusting that when people say nice things about me, they aren’t trying to manipulate me for some future betrayal or abuse. That people actually want me around. That maybe, if I say hi to a person, they won’t be annoyed or rethink why they ever pretended to be friends with me in the first place. I have to purge these shitty worst case scenarios.

I have to somehow find my way through nearly four decades of viewing myself as some sort of leper, constantly falling apart and infecting everyone close to me.

Or maybe it’s as simple as putting in the emotional labor? I know it’s just saying “hi.” It’s typing two letters. But the scenarios that spin out in my head bore a hole right through my chest. I literally begin having trouble breathing at the thought.

I mean Jesus Christ, my last lover of two and a half years - I couldn’t just ask her how she was doing. I had to search the internet for a funny meme to bring to her like a male bird bringing a gift for the female to incorporate into her nest. I viewed myself as having such little value to her (or anyone) that I couldn’t possibly imagine a world in which my acknowledging a person could be seen as beneficial.

Okay. End of the day, I know what I have to work on. I mean, self-image, that’s nothing new. But this is a new, specific application of it that I’ve contextualized for myself and with a specific set of actions I can at least fake until I make. I like people. I like talking to people. Sure, I need to disconnect often, but that’s normal. I’ve let my leg keep me stuck in my house, so I need to compensate somehow, so texting it is, despite how uncomfortable it makes me. I’m unhappy with the situation, so I need to change it. Simple enough.

All I have to do is not think I’m worthless.

Under construction. 

Eros and Thanatos

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Sarahah and Sincerity

So Sarahah has become a fad, which means it has its lovers and haters, both with varying degrees of rational consideration. Personally, I’ve been enjoying it, though I know that others have had toxic outcomes from it. I’ve had many positive notes as well as a few challenging ones. I haven’t had any outright negative submissions, which my paranoid brain immediately turned into “What? Do people think I’m too fragile to handle criticism?!?” But yeah, that part of my brain is really stupid.

The whole thing has gotten me thinking about honesty and sincerity. They are both very difficult values to always advance in one’s daily life. I mean, I personally think deception is a vital part of society and that if everyone voiced every thought that they had, the world would likely crumble within a fortnight. At the very least, almost all of us would lose our jobs as soon as we started telling people what we really thought.

Maybe that’s just me. As a kid from an abusive family, I had to constantly lie or hide the truth. Not really about external things, but internal. My mother hated anything inside of me that wasn’t a perfect replica of herself, so any deviation was swiftly and overwhelmingly punished. I had to create an entirely different person to pretend to be on a daily basis. My mask was meticulous. It’s only when I gave up on ever displaying any independent thought that I could finally earn some peace. I got really, really good at being so vague and noncommittal that I never actually said anything, and the impulse persists. I am reflexively diplomatic to the point of rarely saying anything at all. It infuriates me. So much of my life has since focused on finding the right words, then forcing myself to make them public – to take a fucking stand and be me. It goes against all of my training and I panic each time I hit that “Publish” button. But it is my defiance.

I also have a very acute association with not telling people harsh truths because I think that what I say might set them down a path towards their death/suicide. PTSD – it’s called insane for a reason. I fear that telling someone something negative that I think about them will eventually be their undoing – I actually have OCD against telling people harsh truths. That’s wildly overestimating my influence, but a number of people have told me that my words have saved them, so it does stand to reason that my words could also have the opposite effect (even though that would obviously be the fallacy of the converse).

Plus, I suppose I’ll always feel like I have my mother’s blood on my hands. Broken brains can get really dumb.

So Sarahah has allowed sincerity to come anonymously, as conceptually problematic as that is. It’s also allowed for people to be shitty with each other, but any new medium of communication will do that. I’m pretty sure that if the telegram could have rendered visual media, unsolicited dick pics would have been a staple of the American West. Shittiness aside, I’ve found it to be a great prompt for a number of discussions. Me being me, I’ve tried to answer rather candidly when asked questions, which, when posted to Facebook, has given others the opportunity to comment on their thoughts. I actually do feel like I’ve learned more about my friends who participated and that perhaps they know more of me. This is invaluable to me. For as distant and disengaged as I tend to be on a daily basis, I consider my relationships the only thing in my life truly worth my energy (after that first level of Maslow’s hierarchy). Knowing each other better is beautiful. For that, I’m thankful. I hope the trend persists.

Also, the anonymous comments telling me that I’m hot have been very appreciated.

My mood has been more positive overall for the past few days, likely because I’ve been so engaged with multiple friends on multiple topics. Making people laugh is one of my primary goals in life, and I jump at any chance I see. I feel like I’ve been pretty on point of late. This could be bolstered by the fact that I haven’t been getting laid recently. I seem to get funnier the longer I go without sex. I think it’s an adaptive response built to attract a mate. I’m like a bird whose spring plumage is coming in. Except instead of feathers, it’s jokes about eating ass.

I will say this about sincerity, though. I largely prioritize kindness and diplomacy over truth when interacting with someone. This can lead me to sugarcoat things or to be evasive to the point of opacity. If you want pure truth prioritized, I can give it to you. Be damned sure that you want it. And also be damned sure that I’m not saying anything with the purpose of hurting you. My perspective is not a weapon aimed at you; it’s how I see the world. Just as an example, if you ask me to truthfully tell you if I think you are intelligent, I may say “no.” That will not at all be with the intent of insulting you, merely my perception. I don’t know if that makes a difference to you, but it does to me.

Just know that if I've been kind to you, that’s the real truth. I avoid outright lies at all cost, so if I have ever said something directly, ever taken a stand, ever told you that I like you or that you matter to me, that’s the biggest truth you need to know.

Anyway, if you ever want to ask me for my completely truthful perception, here are the magic words. “David, I want to ask you a question, and I want you to speak only the truth without regard for my feelings or any potential consequences,” then ask your question. I shy away from sincerity because I don’t think people truly want it, but if you make that effort, I will know that you do. I may suggest that the conversation occur at a different time, but I will get to it. I may suggest that the conversation would be better to have in person, so that could be a consideration. I will tell you this, though; the right time is NEVER at Shadowland. That’s happy fun time, not serious time.

So there you go. Magic words, if you care enough to use them. You now know the Zone of Truth spell. Yer a wizard, Harry.

Aromantic

It’s one of those times again. I’m perpetually short of breath. My skin feels tight and it feels like something has its claws in my chest and just keeps squeezing. Every day blurs into the next and all I want to do is scream. And sleep.

Sometimes I can learn something from my depressive episodes. It requires a moment of calm in the fury. It’s as if an alligator has me in its death roll, jaws tight, spinning and spinning and – somehow – I, in a moment of dispassionate clarity, notice which direction the bubbles from my scream are headed and I make a note to myself that, if I get out of this, that’s the way up.

Possibly more accurately, I’m in the irresistible gravity well of self-loathing. While I have nothing better to do than sink ever downward, I examine the physics of my fall, and, by doing some instinctive mathematics, noting all of the bodies powerful enough to exert their force on me. Thus I can infer the shape and location of the dark planets disrupting the orbit of the known objects in this tediously drawn out metaphor for my psyche.

Acute depressive episodes, if I can have that moment of clarity, allow me to measure the profile and power of the demons in the dark. If I can get a decent look at the shape of the horrifying feedback loop my brain gets stuck in, I guess it was worth something. Lesson learned, on to new terrifying vistas.

It takes a number of these insights to extrapolate a picture for myself, and it takes time, examination, and rumination to turn that picture into emotions and then words. My emotions don’t really translate well, at least not without a hell of a lot of work, so this process is laborious, at best.

This particular cycle seems to have shed some light on why I hold myself in such restraint when it comes to feeling connected to someone. To not belabor the point any further, I simply can’t place that much responsibility onto someone that I love. Allowing myself to feel loved, genuinely engaging someone on that level – at least at this point in my mental instability – is potentially a death sentence in which I make my loved one the executioner.

I have abysmal self-worth. I genuinely hate myself with the heat of a thousand comments sections. As such, I end up outsourcing my value to the outside world entirely. This ends up with me being kind of a needy piece of shit, begging for validation on the regular. Thankfully, there’s Facebook. It’s my one stop shop for people to make me feel like I have any trace of merit. I can diffuse the power of that sucking hole inside over whatever percentage of my friends haven’t unfollowed me yet.

I hate doing it. It’s tedious, annoying, and narcissistic. Also, probably not an effective long term solution. However, it’s gotten me through so far, despite… everything.

The reason I’m so scared to have a genuine relationship is because if I began to focus on just one person for all of that support I need, it would be hideously unfair, cruelly dependent, and ultimately it would taint any of the joy that romance is supposed to infuse into one’s life. They would become my reason to live, in the worst way you can imagine. Every word. Every action. Every facial tick. Everything. All of it. Everything that they do – it would be how I determined if were still worthy of drawing breath. You know, after it was all put through a filter of my own paranoia and self-loathing.

So there’s me, watching each minute thing a person does, weighing my life against that. They’d become my sole anchor to being a human. That isn’t a relationship – that’s profound sickness in the form of dependence. Romance, playfulness, confidence – they all die. All I’d do is panic each time the cloud of a bad mood crossed my lover’s face. Each harsh word, every deep sigh, all of it would send me into a catatonic haze, afraid that that would be the end of it all, that would be what pulled the rug out from under me.

What kind of person would I be if I knowingly did that to someone I professed to care about? And, in some dim, distant way, to myself? Logically I know that to rest my survival on something so potentially tumultuous as one other person’s perception of me could be disastrous. Especially when I know I’ll interpret the signs in the worst way possible. Especially since, when the chips are down, I begin losing all ability to communicate. Especially since, as soon as I begin seeing the signs of negativity, I immediately begin planning my exit strategy, hardening my heart out of self-preservation.

Especially since I know that I can in no way offer someone anything of equal value.

I can’t do that again. I can’t turn someone’s love for me into that toxic dependence again. I can’t turn someone into my life support system again. I can’t turn love into pity and obligation again.

I have to get better. I don’t know if I can, but I don’t want to be alone. Most of my relationships were pretty awful and easy to write off, but I’ve lost wonderful women now, because of my own weakness and terror. Because, like all abused children, I carved sword and shield from my own self, built myself into armor protecting… nothing. I used up all of myself to prepare for strife and suffering. I am prepared for battle, but not for life. A hollow suit of plate, fighting a battle many years lost. A ghost, needing someone to haunt in order to feel connected to the world, yet unable to stomach the guilt of being such a parasite.

There is no optimistic resolution here. No closure. No hero’s journey. I give you nothing and yet implicitly ask your validation. Same as always. 

Apathy

Recently, my anxiety topped out and the predictable result happened: emergency shut off. I've slipped into depersonalization. It feels like Actually David has fucked off and some sort of Backup David has had to take over.

I don't really feel anything, but logically I know that I need to maintain Actual David's interests in the world or else shit will fall apart, leaving Actual David a mess to deal with whenever he ends up getting back. I'm groping for metaphors, but it's like the store of Me is being run by the assistant manager who knows how to do everything but simply has no personal investment in the outcome, and just feels annoyed and harried by the unwelcome responsibility of running the show (or having to do anything, really). Perhaps maybe I shut down improperly and have rebooted in safe mode, only bare bones functionality until the problem is properly sorted. Maybe this is what Sam felt like when he lost his soul in season five of Supernatural.

During times like this, I feel like an observer watching myself go through the motions. When I care, I will often philosophize about the difference between this "I" and "myself," what is observing and what is being observed, but I don't know if I'll ever be able to properly express what it feels like when I say "I'm not me." The inherent paradox is staggering and nonsensical, but I feel it nonetheless.

Such times will inevitably lead to isolation, which is largely fine. I'm a fairly isolated person to begin with, so few would notice. I end up believing that it would be detrimental to Actual David's life if I were to attempt anything resembling sincerity with those who are normally close to me. They would notice the disconnect and take offense, if prior evidence indicates. Their opinions of me would, if history holds, shift to believing me to be "emotionless," "robotic," "rehearsed," or "distant." At this moment, all of those labels would be accurate, but I don't necessarily believe them to be on a longitudinal scale.

To carry the metaphor, the assistant manager believes himself to be competent enough to run the store for the untrained customer's needs. However, if any higher ups came to inspect things, they would immediately notice the AM's failings, drawing attention to how unprepared the general manager was for his own absence. The AM also knows that most of the problems come from the fact that he doesn't truly care about the outcome, but still doesn't want to get the GM in trouble.

So, yeah. That's where I am. Hollow and apathetic. Likely only for the moment. Time is flying past me and recollection of recent events is very hazy, as I'm not doing the normal human contextualization of events with emotional judgment. I guess it would stand to reason to ask why even bother writing this? Partly as a "Please excuse our mess while we remodel" warning/supplication. Partly because I'm aware that documenting my mental illness can help people and helping people is a good thing to do. Partly to lower people's expectations for me, mostly so that when Actual David returns, he won't have a pile of shit to clean up, as I anticipate serious feelings of guilt with the return of emotion.

So yeah. That's where I'm at. There's no need to worry about me; I'm likely more stable than usual. I'm performing all necessary life functions as well as normal. The worst I can say is that I've let some cosmetic issues go due to seeing no practical value in expending energy to maintain them. I've also not communicated this current situation before this post, so there's the chance someone could have noticed my change in behavior and been offended by it, which I certainly didn't intend. It takes a while for me to catch up with what is going on inside me. By the time I have adequate explanation, the damage is done. So it goes.

As for now, the store is tended, if sparsely. Please excuse our mess.

Trigger Warning

I want to kill myself.

I’m not going to do it right now, so don’t alert any authorities or anything, but I want to. I don’t want to want to, but that’s life, right? This has been my reality since around age eleven. I just want to kill myself.

Some days, I want to stop feeling and let myself die. Some days, I want to murder my greatest enemy - myself. Some days, I hate everything in the world. So. Fucking. Much. That I simply can’t see my way to exist through another horrifying day. Some days, I am so exhausted by the thought of doing laundry that I don’t know how the hell I’ll be able to accomplish any task ever again.

Those are the most prevalent flavors of my suicidal thoughts. Obviously, I haven’t gone through with it. I haven’t a fucking clue how I haven’t, but I’m still here. I’ve achieved some delicate balance. Most of it comes from releasing the notion of ever being happy. I don’t exhaust myself with chasing ideals of fulfillment. I don’t strive or desire. I’ve let my ambitions go. I simply don’t have the resources for such things. I’ve been much more stable since doing this.

Being a gamer, I have to make the comparison that it’s almost like mana usage in Dragon Age. There is always a part of me fighting off the desire to end my life, like a shield spell that uses a dedicated 30% of my mana pool. I start my day out at 70%. The Deal With Constant Pain spell takes another 30% or so, some days more, some days less. On any given day, I’m operating at about 40% of average mana, so I don’t have a lot of room for anything but work and basic life maintenance. I live within a very narrow margin that I have to carefully monitor.

It’s been worse, it’s been better, but I’ve been relatively okay of late. I only think of killing myself every couple of days, and usually without any real emotional investment in the idea. It’s been far worse. If you live in my town, there have been many nights when, had you been walking down Orange Street, you might have found me sitting on one of the benches outside of the eight story parking garage, crying softly to myself, going back and forth on if I was going to get into that elevator.

Right now, I seem to be at the Groucho Marx level. “I’m not crazy about reality, but it’s still the only place to get a decent meal.” I can find and experience enjoyable sensory phenomenon. Death will end that and I only have one shot at this, so, if I want more pizza and orgasms, I guess I’d better deal with the rest of the bullshit. This is Level One, and about as high as I can expect to function.

Level Two is I Can’t Do This To My Friends. I know firsthand how hard the suicide of someone close to you can affect you. At this level, even though my isolation and depression have separated me almost entirely from feeling like I can ever connect with anyone on a meaningful level, I know that many people would likely be damaged to some degree by my death and I can’t handle the guilt of doing that to so many lovely people who have been so charitable, if misguided, to care about me.

Level Three is I Fucking Hate You All.  This is when I begin to resent that every person in my life is passively guilting me into living even when they refuse to help (in my twisted vision of things). I want to scream in the face of everyone who professes to give a shit, saying that thing that I know I could say that would drive a permanent wedge between us. I want to dissolve every connection once and for all, leaving me alone and free, able to end my life with no one to mourn me. Because if all I’m doing is living for other people, and THEY AREN’T HELPING ME, why the fuck should I care how they feel after I’m gone?

Obviously, I realize the distorted cognitions of Level Three. I know people want to help, I don’t actually resent them (you). I just resent the fact that no one can reach inside me and actually do something to fix me.

I don’t know what Level Four is. I suspect that if I find out, I won’t have the opportunity to record it.

Why am I writing all of this? Chris Cornell just committed suicide, so the topic is in the ether. Naturally, we all have feelings about it. Naturally, there is a greater discussion about mental health, depression, and suicidal urges. Naturally, this sets me into a shitty place.

The following is a Facebook post I made about a year ago on the topic of how people want to help. I feel it bears repeating.

"If you're depressed and contemplating suicide, please reach out."

I've seen (and said) this statement many times. It's earnest and well-meaning and I’m glad for the many caring souls who say it, but I've begun to see the terrible flaw in it.

Let's say I have a friend. We'll call him Mort. Mort is depressed and becoming more and more suicidal. He is consumed by self-loathing and just wants it all to end. I post the "If you're depressed..." line on Facebook, which Mort sees.

Here's the problem. I have put the burden of action to protect Mort's survival onto Mort. I have put the burden of action onto the person who least wants to see Mort survive. He, in that psychological space, is the least qualified person in the world to care for Mort. The onus is on him to exercise self-care, when all he wants to see is his self end.

Do you see the problem?

If you are depressed, please, absolutely reach out if you can. But more than that by FAR; if you see someone who is having trouble, reach out to them first. Don't make the person being slowly crushed under their own suffering take the first step. And don’t tell them life is worth living, get involved and show them.

I’m astonished that people are surprised Cornell hung himself. For the love of cake, he wrote a song called “Pretty Noose.” Are people so naïve that they think money, fame, and love can fix this shit? This doesn’t get fixed. You cope. That’s the best you’ve got. And maybe you cope until life gets around to killing you. And maybe you find one day you just can’t cope anymore and expedite the process. But that’s what we’ve got. Coping. And sure, some of us can accomplish a lot with their remaining 40 or 70% mana. Maybe their pool of resources was just bigger by nature, I don’t know.

One thing I want to say as I close. When and if I kill myself, it will be my decision. There is no decision more personal and more mine than my continued existence. My persistence is my endorsement of my self and my reality. At some point, I may no longer be able to abide one or both of those things. And if you judge me for that, you can go fuck yourself. Be sad for my passing, be sad it came to such an end, whatever. Feel how you feel. But to judge someone who took their life? To call them a coward or weak? If you can even think such words, your myopic, infantile ignorance of how hard a person’s struggle can be makes you a useless sack of shit. I’m not endorsing suicide, but I do think there is a rather unnecessary negative stigma on it. It is sad, but that’s it. To blame or denigrate someone for their choice, to immediately jump to saying how selfish and thoughtless and awful and cowardly it makes the deceased? That makes you garbage, as far as I’m concerned. Take your judgment and shove it up your ass. It’s my life, it’s my death. You may have the opportunity to make either of them somewhat better, but in the end, for better or worse, I’m responsible for me, even if I, the actor, am a slave to myself, the construct.

And I don’t like what you got me hanging from.