Twenty-seven seven

 It is late. I probably could sleep. But I don't want to. Sleeping means waking up. And waking up means deciding if I can face another day. They have no end. They simply proceed one after the other.

I do, I did and I will think about ending my life. I know that if you read this, you will likely say, oh, you should not. You should fight for it. 

Fight for what? When I wake up, I find out if there's any work for me. If there is, I know I can do it and make maybe enough to pay the rent. I usually can't stand to do much more because it's not fun, it's not good work. It's not boring like your job is boring, or tiring like your job is tiring. It's not even soul destroying. It's crushing because it's the best I can hope for. It's all I am good for.

Doing all you are good for is not soul destroying. It's a way of reminding yourself you do not have a soul; you do not have any beauty; you have nothing that anyone wants.

I don't have friends. There are a couple of people at the dog park I talk to but those are all the friends I have. Why don't I have them? Why don't I make more? I'm not unfriendly. I'm a bit odd maybe but not even really so much that you'd notice. If I can fight down the little professor, I'm at least sometimes interesting.

Or I thought I was. I had a couple of people I talked to regularly. But they grew bored of me. Sufficiently that they just didn't want to be my friend any more. It has left me profoundly empty, bereft.

The cause of not having friends is that I worked from home. I gave up having a life, friends, everything for people I loved. And what does that reward you? One woman I just couldn't love any more; the other, well, she never was the person I loved, and finding that out crushed me. It caused a crisis of confidence that I have not recovered from. It left me unable to find anyone who might care for me.

I know that some people who read this will protest that they do care for me. I don't mean you don't love me. I don't even mean you don't think about me. I'm sure people do. I mean you cannot care for me. Not as a child. As someone who is present. As someone who will share their problems with me and listen to mine. Not even that. I don't want to spend my days bleating. As someone who already knows them and will be a safe place for me.

I do not have anything safe in my life. I just have things that hurt. They hurt all the time. Each thing sits there and says, you deserve it. Because that is how I see the world. Despite all the unfairness, the injustice, the wonky scales that I can see all around me, I am still getting what I deserve. 

I just can't get out of it. I can't get a job to give me the money to save to have the backstop that you are supposed to have. I cleared most of my debts and then I got more because I didn't have work and I have to live. I am crushed by rent and I can't afford not to pay it. What a quandary! I am too poor to move out. It haunts me: how easily I could be free of those debts, for what a low price. But it's a price I can't pay. And I had a car crash that left me hurt and broken, and facing even more debt. I can't do anything about it. I dread hearing about how much people think I will give them. I cannot give them anything.

I cannot even be bankrupt. To survive, I had to create a situation that if I reveal it to an insolvency official, I will be in even worse trouble. 

I do know what some people will think. Just suck it up. Get an extra job and work hard. But I have had to try to make my life less miserable so that I can bear it. And seriously, what job? What extra job can I have?

***

It gets worse. I can't talk about it here but this is not all that leaves me powerless and bereft. I recently went to England and that made things worse. No one intended that it should but it did. Because I know that being here is what makes me want to die and I can't change it. It's no one's fault but my own. But I know that that's a losing battle, something I can't fix. You cannot reason with something that howls with its own pain that makes no sense, knows no reason. I will talk about it another time. I cannot afford therapy so this is all I have.

So tomorrow I will wake up and hope that it looks a little brighter. But it won't. There will just be a voice following me around the house as I clean it, whispering did you think you could have a dream? Did you think you could have what you wanted? Did you think you could be happy? Did you think you could be loved? And laughing at me, screeching with laughter, while me, I can't laugh along with it. My laughter vanished seven years ago and it's the fear that it won't come back that is making me think about stopping.

posted by Dr Zen @ 1:23 am