out of the archives

don't know how old this really is... but I'm in a much better place these days.

I feel at times that there is something pulling me apart. No, scratch that - I feel that I am trapped within myself and trying to shed my outer shell. It's like an exoskeleton that no longer fits, and I no longer feel. It clings like a wet sweater, I'm suffocating. This is the sensation I get from my extreme frustration over not being where I want to be in life, and feeling as if I've done everything within my power to make it happen. I feel quashed. My world is spinning out of control. I feel like I spend the better part of my day fighting a force as distinct as gravity itself-centrifugal force that is on the verge of flinging me into oblivion. I'm aching from my efforts to maintain.



I caught myself contemplating suicide today. It was sobering, but not shocking. I became aware that I had my finger to my head, as a gun... but not to my temple because I heard somewhere, sometime, that this is a "Hollywood-style suicide"–not effective, or at least not efficient. I had my “gun” to the back of my head, at the underside of the knob where the fleshy part of my neck becomes my skull. Here I imagine would be the most direct route for a bullet to obliterate my means of perceiving myself, my existence.



My brain is my favorite part of myself, I love using it. But in the area of my brain where I dream-the part where I imagine what could be-sometimes all I can think about is the fact that I am mounted with a “red button”. My brain. My self destruct sits on my shoulders and I carry it with me into every depressing situation, and my brain is also the medium that decides what's bearable, and what drives me to my breaking point



I have somewhat of an "autopilot" mode. When I hit a degree of desperate depression my subconscious throws the switch, my senses shrink to a very concentrated field that don't pick up on much that isn't mandatory to sustain life. I hear but I don't listen, I don't see what doesn't demand my attention. My awareness becomes tunnel vision, focusing on a routine of eating when I'm hungry and sleeping when I'm drained. Autopilot sounds like such a fancy feature,- so futuristic- yet it's so primal in origin.


I get angry before I get depressed. Lots of things anger me. I may have very deep anger issues, it would trouble my friends to know the effort I put into NOT being violent. As I write this I think of instances where I wanted noting more than to “neutralize” a situation by dishing out contusions.


My feelings overwhelm me to the point that I want to vent with a primal scream. I hope that sounds healthier than allowing my discontentment to build up inside me. My insides feel contorted. Unsettled, like theres a smoldering coal in the center of them. That coal represents my emotions, I want to be able to share this glowing ember without fear of having it doused and smothered by the very girl that ignited it. I want to be able to feel empathy when my friends feel loss instead of feeling empty-helpless. I want to feel joy when they do, instead of hating the joy they find in small things that I can't even appreciate because so much more weighs on my mind. I want to feel sadness instead of just being sad, but I'm callused and scarred by the mundane day-to-day.



A blazing fever festers and boils in my mind, I feel encased with plate steel that holds in all my ideas, so I can't bring them into the light and make them reality. Writers block? yes, and so much more. my ideas are there, suffocating like me. I'm aware of them but the effort of trying to breathe life into them robs me of every ounce of energy, so I remain barely content to just live. My existence is so far removed from the influence and radiance of the sun. I feel like I've taken a dive into a mineshaft and now I lye hopeless, dreaming of reaching the daylight, remembering when I could see color, depth and texture. I could feel....


What a batch of mellow-drama, eh? I'm not looking for pity, I'm transcribing my feelings. Maybe I'm not the best at that, but it feels productive. If/when this particular bout of depression passes, and I feel that all this little routine didn't accelerate the process or alleviate my pain, or I feel that I no longer have use for it, Then I'll toss it.