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Introspection-- DEEP SHIT!
Prussia-Default
derruhm

Introspection, psychologists say, are good for the mind. Let's give this a try.



 

I know I'm sensitive. Probably too sensitive at times. So I cover it up by being overtly aggressive, crass, rude, crude, and otherwise an asshole. It's not too hard to cowl me down, honestly. Raise your voice and yell at me. I hate that. It's a good temporary solution to getting me to listen. After a while though I just become resentful. It leaves me with a bit of a conundrum. What's a good balance for an overly empathetic person like myself?

 

Tell me I'm doing okay, okay? I need to hear it sometimes. More often than you tell me. I'm not sure of myself. Ever. I spend a lot of the time questioning myself, wondering where I'm going, what I'm doing, what I'll be doing this time tomorrow or in thirty years. Sometimes I wonder if you want me around at all. I need to feel appreciated. More than anything I need to feel accomplished. If I'm not doing something to earn my keep I get depressed. I have to earn my right to live. If I run out of purpose, I run out of excuses not to pull the trigger on myself.

 

I have a really strange relationship with the rest of the male gender. It's kinda of, well, bizarre. I'm not particularly attracted to males in a sexual sense. The appeal, for me, is more like envy. This was a signal in my head that I use to confuse with attraction before, but its not. Really, it's envy. I don't want to fuck Till Lindemann, I want to BE him. (Yeah, I know he's old, I still give anything to be him for a day.) I have a lot of issues with myself. My anatomy is kinda fucked. I'm chunky, to be polite to myself for once, awkward, overweight, and generally not very attractive looking. I don't make millions of dollars a year. I'm not talented. I've got a little bit of intellect going for me, but you can convince me other wise. I don't like me. I often fantasize about being someone else. That's what the thrill of escapism is to me. I get to go be someone else for a while, and I don't have to live with being me.

 

You ever feel that way?

 

I've come to realize a lot of things about my mom the past few days. They're more personal things really, but among them I realized that this time she's not just going away and going to come back later like she use to. This one's for keeps. That's still sinking into me really. I'm not completely sure how to handle it. It's not like losing a mom to me, yet, because we weren't that close. But I think if I'm allowed to meditate on it any longer that it might devolve that far. I did love my mother. I think the reason I pushed her away so much in those later years is because I knew this would happen. I didn't want to be hurt.

 

But I also feeld as though I failed. I should have protected her. It was my job, my duty, as guardian of my family to provide for and protect them. And I let her die. The thought has crept into my head a few times over the past several days, in the shadow of night, that I should execute myself for my failure. It's a great dishonor upon my name. A disgusting failure that I'll never live down. I let my own mother die because I was selfish. I didn't want to hurt for her, and she was the one to bleed for it. Now she gets no second chance. And I am left behind.

 

I don't have anyone. I became painfully aware of that this pass week. I have, literally, no one.

 

I was watching the rest of my family during these events that have transpired, and became acutely aware of the void between me and the rest of them. Sure, we're a family, but they're connected to one another. And I'm just... me. When we're sitting in the church and everyone besides me is crying, I took note of them. Grandma and Grandpa hug each other and cry and comfort one another. My sister clings to her father and they both stare, straight faced but with tears dripping down their cheeks at our mom, her countenance frozen in time. Forever. And me? I sit alone, no tears, watching. I had no one to cling to. I had no one to cry on. I did not even have anyone to talk to. I fear burdening my friends, I wouldn't want to force them to become angry with me because all I did was complain about my mom. No matter how much I'm hurting, I can't inconvenience others. It's a deadly sin to me.

 

I must always come last. Though I protect my interests and investments, when it comes to emotional well being, I'm the back of the line. Everyone else must be okay before I have time to worry about me. I would never be selfish enough to take care of myself. I have to make sure that my friends and loved ones are okay. If not, I have to fix it for them. If I can't, I torture myself over it. Sometimes literally. I have nasty sets of burns and scars from my failures. I feel as though I've deserved them. They're a badge of my shame. I have a lot to feel ashamed for, that's how I see it in my mind. If I have failed you, then you must be compensated. Somehow, in my head, this is approximately equal to my suffering. I probably won't tell you that I'm destroying myself for you. I really don't want to hear you say you don't want it. I don't know how else to fix it. Hurting myself for my failures seems perfectly natural to me. It is so bred into me, so instilled, so sacred, that failure literally is not an option. I would rather die than fail you, fail anyone I care about for that matter.

 

If you're depressed I'll come to you. I'll take care of you, make you better. Or at least I'll try my damned hardest too. I want to make sure you're okay. I want to make you right. But when it comes to me. I push people away. I laugh at my misery and berate myself. How dare I be depressed? I've got nothing to be upset over! If I feel depression over nothing, its equated somewhat with failure. Failure to keep myself 'normal' I suppose. I hate being an inconvenience to others. I never want them to know that I'm hurt. I don't want them to take care of me, to fix me, despite how broken I am. I hate me. I don't deserve their kindness or nice things. I'm evil for making them go out of their way for me. They have to be compensated somehow. So then I have to hurt myself.

 

It kinda falls into a weird cycle of torturing self. I can't fail, I can't be depressed, I have to be perfect, I have to take care of everyone. When I slip up, do something wrong, FAIL, then I must be punished for having such audacity. I must be hurt for the damaged I have caused. It fragments my mental status really though, and I only fail over and over again. There is no crawling out of this hole. I can only sink deeper.

 

It's why I speak so neutrally of ending my own life so often. I see it as a punishment, justice, something I deserve for my mess ups. Failures don't deserve to live, that's a special privilege only for those who aren't fuck ups, who aren't accidents, who don't ruin people's lives with their failures. I'm an accident. I wasn't ever suppose to be. My existence is meaningless, purposeless, inherently flawed. Inherently a failure. Thus, inherently, I don't deserve to live. It would only be RIGHT for me to execute myself. It would somehow, someway, maybe offer some sort of meager solace to the powers that be, an apology for ever living in the first place and a humble retreat back into the darkness.

 

I can't die right now though. I've got a sister, and old, fragile grandparents to take care of. I have to protect them, serve them, take care of them. I can only come second. I could never dream of being selfish with them. I don't expect them to love me, I don't think they should most of the time really.

 

My existence, my purpose, is that while I am still alive then I must prove that I am worth the oxygen and the carbon that make me up. I can make life better for others. Take care of them. Protect them. There's no gratification in bettering myself. I hate me. There's no stock in living for me, I can't even stand me. If I can make someone elses' life better though, then I can justify my breathing. When I fail them though, it is hard to make my case, why should I continue to be, when obviously I am worthless?

 

That's what it all comes down to. Feelings of worthlessness. No one has really, truly ever bothered to work through them. Sure, we work around them, that's easy. I can smile and pretend I'm fine on the outside, and you bet your ass I will. I won't let you know on the inside I'm dying. And I'm an amazing actor. You'll never know how I really feel. This charming smile and a well placed chuckle will dispel all your second guessing.

 

It's when you go home, walk away, stop talking, and log off that it begins. The thought process in my head that judges me, holding me to a standard that towers so high above others, pushing me off that pedestal and watching me plummet to the ground. And you can't prove any of this is true. I'm not doing it for the attention. I don't slash my wrists for the world to see. I'm covert. I don't leave marks. If I do, I cover them well. It's about the pain, not the wound. I may not even bleed, but the pain will remain and throb for days because of the deeper wounds. I've cracked bones, seared nerves, left bruises the size of both my fists together. And for what?

 

To justify living.

 

If I beat myself enough, then I can be allowed to live. As long as I make living a burden on me, I can justify not killing myself.

 

Looking at it, now, in a moment of neutralness, if doesn't make sense to me either. I know why I do it, but it doesn't make sense. I can't make the pieces fit. And no one is going to help me. Because even if they try I'll push them away. I'll throw up walls of stone and ice between me and them, and cut them with sharp words and forceful, jaded personality. No one wants to work through all of that. People don't want to take care of me. Why should they? It seems like a silly idea. Love me? I don't think its possible most days. I just smile and nod when people say it, I never really feel it. I'm content with it, really. I don't care if they don't love me one bit. I don't care if they hate me. I'll still protect them, still care for them, still do everything I can for them, to justify my own pathetic, empty existence. I can't live for me, but I can live for you.

 

So tell me that I'm doing okay from time to time... you have no clue how much it helps...


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'I have, literally, no one.'

...:(

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