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RE:  Finding Release from Mental Suffering.

WRITTEN 2/13/2008 @ AGE 26

I’ve been really low today, I had to try I think three or four times really hard to keep from crying at work today.  I just feel fucking depressed, I have trouble concentrating, I wonder how I’m going to pay my bills.  I don’t know how I’m going to pay for my student loans.  I don’t know how I’m going to pay for my psychiatrist bills.  I don’t know how I’m going to pay for my bar application or the bar review course…  I don’t know how I’m going to pay for the taxes I owe.  I don’t know how I’m going to pay.  I keep giving of myself, I keep trying and I can’t get anywhere.  I can hardly put one foot in front of the other – I don’t have the energy.  I don’t know where I’m gonna find the energy to go on.

You know its funny, I was telling Stella tonight how, when I am feeling particularly manic, I just want to give of myself.  I want to give myself and my money and my soul, my love and my being to help save others, to help comfort others and bring joy into their lives – because that’s what I want myself.  I feel at least some sense of meaning in my life, knowing that even if I can’t ever find the love that I’m looking for – the love that makes life worth living, that fills in all the emptiness and makes all the suffering worthwhile – even if I can’t find that for myself, if I can give it away, myself to others, then I somehow feel redeemed in my loneliness.

The scariest part, though, is that when I fall, I fall hard, and when I fall hard my heart fucking aches.  It’s a pain – it’s a suffering that cannot be translated into words.  It’s a dull, aching wound in my heart, a sadness beyond all that can be expressed in that which is material.  It’s a sadness that can only be felt existentially.  It’s the sadness that ceases the flow of meaning, it enraptures and encloses and takes stake over my heart, it makes me feel cold and fearful.  I feel devastated, inevitably, in the presence of others.  I can’t describe it, I don’t have the words to tell you, to paint the justice it deserves.

When I fall, my heart aches constantly, and the presence of other people only amplifies the pain and suffering.  To be in the presence of others who have those things I’ve spent 26 years looking for, 26 years giving of myself, 26 years of killing myself to find, and I can’t find them and I don’t know how much longer I can go on telling myself things will get better in the complete absence of fulfillment and meaning.  For so long I’ve been telling myself to just “make it through” – make it through now and things will get better.

But I’ve played that game and danced that dance, I’ve run that race round and round and I keep coming out on the end without hope – without the will to go on.  I keep coming up wanting, I try so fucking hard and I give so much, I love and I try and I work hard and suffer to keep my heart and mind open in spite of the pain doing so entails, I keep telling myself things are going to get better – but if I can’t believe things are going to get better in the everlasting absence of that which makes life worth living, that which pulls you through the darkness and keeps you searching on for the light – then, I don’t know how much longer I can go on.

I don’t know how much longer I can go on hoping against hope.  I’m told to dream, and then laughed at for dreaming.  I’m told to dream and then told I’m delusional to have such thoughts.  I’m encouraged to dream, only to come up wanting in a world that is cruel and hard and unforgiving.  I don’t find that in giving what you want – what you want, will find you in return.  I’m tired of being alone.  I’m tired of feeling the entire meaning of life at once, only to find that my meaning is delusional – a consequence of mental illness.  I’m fucking tired of having to take prescribed drugs three fucking times a day just so I can “make it” in this world.  At what point can I retreat into believing that in the race for survival of the fittest, I am not fit?  I do not fit, and I have to be drugged so that I do.  I do not fit here.  I’m not meant to be here.  I’m not meant to be here.  I’m not fucking supposed to be here…

Do you know what that feels like?  I’m sure you do don’t you?  I’m sure this is normal, wanting to kill myself, dreaming of the end, finding that I am not fit to survive in this world.  Either I am defective or I have been born into a world or a life I was not meant to fulfill.  I do not believe that I am meant to be here.  I see that others struggle, I know that everyone struggles, but I don’t know anyone that struggles the way I do.  I don’t know anyone that’s struggled as long and as deeply as I have, but strangely I do know that I am not alone.  I know that I am not alone, but I’m all alone, nonetheless.

The kind of love that makes a person interested in the daily details of your mundane life is the kind of love that makes life worth living.  I cannot find that love.  Somehow I’m acutely aware of the love that I am waiting for – but I feel that in waiting, I am cursed.  I feel like I should be living now, being young and having fun and spending time with friends and dating and living it up, but I couldn’t be further from that place.  I hate my life right now.  I have so many things I am thankful for, so many wonderful people in my life and so many gifts, but it’s not enough for me.  It’s simply not enough to justify the inescapable pain with which I suffer every fucking day of my life.  I don’t know that I’ll ever have enough, and I don’t know how I can move forward in spite of a history full of pain, a lifetime of mental anguish.

I need some evidence that I will be released – maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow or next year or several years thereafter, but I need something to fucking hold on to.  I’m slipping, and I need something to hold on to.  I need someone to hold on to me, but in my eternal need to be saved – I find myself retreating ever further into the darkness.