New Age Living

Am I supposed to deal with this for the rest of my life? At least before I had some kind of reason to feel this way. But things are going so well. So why do I feel so much sadness? Part of it has to do with the overwhelming fear that something bad will happen because things are going so well. Another part of it is because I still heavily struggle with the notion that I deserve good things to happen to me. Then there’s the constant droning of overthinking and over-analyzing every little thing. That’s the sh*t that kills me.

Why am I like that? Why is my brain so f*cked up? Was I born this way? And I didn’t realize it until I was older? Is it centuries of family trauma all perfectly balanced on my bare shoulders? None of the life suppressants that people use work for me. Alcohol throws me straight into the ninth circle of Hell. Marijuana puts me in the chair absently staring at the wall for hours. Meaningless sex with strangers was just hollowing and instant gratification. Exercise is temporary until I eat again. And antidepressants was just a way to remain numb.

A trusted confidant told me that I’m scared of my own thoughts, and that I let my emotions control me. Both of these statements are true. I won’t deny it. I was always told that what you think becomes your reality, and that scares me in itself. I can’t afford a therapist in this society. So here I am writing this to you.

I can’t ever tell anyone what truly goes on in my head. I have to be that acceptable version of a mess. The version that people know they can relate to. The one where they apologize that you feel that way, and they throw out that empty promise that you can tell them anything. But you can’t really. Talking about it too much makes you a narcissist. Then you’re accused of being “toxic” and “draining.” But talking about it just the perfect, acceptable amount lets people know that you’re human and not some kind of emotionless robot. And it makes them feel better about themselves when they offer empty emotional support. Then you go about your temporary lives, and they don’t check in with you for another few months because they figure that their “it’s going to be okay” statement will get you through until the next time they remember your existence. And you can’t say anything against it because you know that you’re the same way. The cycle continues. Forever. Until you both eventually leave this world with unresolved trauma and f*cked up minds. All because you were both too afraid to be the unacceptable versions of screwed up. Even though that’s who you really are. You just hope that someone will notice your depressing song lyric caption on Instagram and give a sh*t.

It’s an exhausting thing to be a human. Caught in between the suffocating thought that everything matters and that nothing matters at all. I’ve lived in both places. I’m still trying to find the joy in both of these extremes. My minuscule life in this universe does not matter. It doesn’t matter if I rip all of my hair out and become bald. It doesn’t matter if I choose not to eat because it causes me to not feel good about myself. It doesn’t even matter if I feel good about myself or not. Because who the hell cares? No one remembers the things I say anyways. I was cursed with remembering absolutely everything. Down to the red, faded striped shirt you were wearing on February 22nd of 2014 during our conversation in the high school parking lot. But not even that matters. Who cares if people don’t care enough to remember the things I do? Unfortunately, I do.

That’s where the other side of the debate comes into play. If I were to die today, I wouldn’t have made any significant impact on anyone. And I know what you’re going to tell me. Of course I have! But I’m trying to communicate on a real level here. In my eyes, I feel that I haven’t. If I were to die today, within 6 months, everyone I was ever involved with will be forced to keep spinning with the rest of the world. Which of course, every decent person is expected to want their loved ones to go on without them. So maybe it makes me a bad person to want at least one person to be distraught forever when I’m gone. Maybe by me writing this makes me that cynical, draining, narcissist that I know exists in the unacceptable part of me.

But what does it matter?

And then everything matters all the time. My life, what I choose to do with it, how I affect the people around me. It. All. Matters. Even the 5 minute interaction between myself and a customer at work matters. I have to work on my mental health because feeling good about myself matters. I have to eat because it’s crucial to my health, and it keeps me from fainting in public. I have to love and live because what else does this materialistic world have to offer? Even the cynical narcissist deserves to be loved. To know or hope that at least one person will accept the unacceptable version of you, matters. And when they don’t, you work on yourself. That’s what you do for love. And for this world that means nothing and everything at the same time.