puh30122020

I know what this looks like. You're looking at the publish date and thinking, "it's going to be a reflection of the year thing/ new year resolution type post", but it isn't. It's just me having to force myself to write something down and publish it, so I wouldn't have another gap in a December for this blog's history.

I feel like my feeling the need to make a piece of writing "good", to "flow", to "capture the reader's attention at first sentence", etc., is starting to bleed into my personal writing. Maybe I'm subconsciously trying to make some really fucking abstract point even I have no conscious idea of. Something, something, trying to get me to be interested in my own life and its goings-on. Trying to find appreciation, blahblah. Never feeling good enough and overcompensating, trying to reach out to hold someone's attention in dumb desperation, or just a sign that I'm starting to lose myself to "work", that some lines are starting to get blurred.

See, this is why I really dislike forcing myself to write, or do anything, because it just comes across as so confused, half hearted, and a complete fucking mess no one has any use for or understanding of. I don't know if anyone else feels this way. I don't know if I will ever find another piece of writing elsewhere that really explores feelings like this. Maybe I really am a weirdo. Maybe others do have these feelings, but aren't in the habit of writing. Maybe everything just has to be 140 characters or less and need an eye catching photo attached to it to gain any attention. I get this feeling I'd feel so alone, adrift, and clueless regardless. I'm so awful at expressing myself. Hell, I'm awful at making sense of what I feel to begin with. How can I expect anyone else to really understand me and offer any solace, any company? Maybe I'm an extraordinarily stupid person for not knowing how to deal with these feelings on my own as a grown ass adult. Maybe I'm just stupidly weak for letting these doubts cloud and cripple me. I just don't know what to do. I've nowhere really to be, but I'm lost nonetheless.

What is the meaning of any of this? Why am I just being kept alive? If suicide is so readily labelled selfish, why can't the love that keeps me imprisoned here just as readily be labelled selfish as well? I'm no longer actively thinking of and wishing for death, because I'm very, very slowly starting to not just realise, but appreciate how much I am loved by my family, the latter of which I feel I never had much of a sense for prior. The thought of killing myself disgusts me. But... at the same time, I don't feel I've much of a reason, or even a right, to be alive. To consume food. To incur a financial cost. To meet, and ask things of people. To exist completely detached from society, to be of absolutely no tangible use or benefit to anyone. To be unable to make anyone happy. To be quantifiably a good-for-nothing. A defect in the manufacturing line.

How true are those statements? Is it truly enough to simply be alive? Does just seeing me safe and sound, does just spending time with me doing simple things like chatting and being out for a meal, bring joy to my friends and family? Does it count if I've put no real conscious effort into it? Is it enough to just be alive in a prison? Why does it never feel enough? Why do I feel so... distant, detached, from people in general? Why does it feel like I've no hope of conversing with them, to match their wavelengths? Why does it feel like we're all speaking different languages by this point?

Are my life experiences invalid? Am I not allowed to feel the way that I do, or think the things that pervade my mind? Am I simply weak, or merely misunderstood? Am I exceptionally stupid, or uniquely perceptive? Why can I never come to the same answers as these "normal" people, who surround me, who live with me? Perhaps I do not have a right to be philosophical. Maybe there's no value in me questioning the way the world works. Perhaps mental healthcare is only reserved for the well to do. Maybe I really do need to pay someone just for them to really listen to me.

What do I want to do right now? I'm disinterested in everything. The thought of society sickens me. I hate myself so much I cannot fathom why anyone would want to be my friend. I don't want to live. I don't want to die. I don't want to think.

Is there any hope left for me? Is there any justification anyone can conjure up to help me, to spend resources on me? What sort of help do I think I want? What exactly is wrong with me? How do I cure myself if I don't even know what is wrong with me? Maybe I'm insane, or maybe I'm the only sane person I know. Maybe I'm sick. Maybe I've just been hurt. Maybe I've hit my head against a wall one time too many.

Does everyone have a right to live? Does everyone have a right to be happy? Is there value simply in the existence, or happiness, of someone? Why do you think that?