Dry Mouthed Dreamer

Seventeen and a half hours of disturbing, seemingly eternal, dreams of those who I love and whom I can not seem to convey my reality to in real time, has left me emotionally hungover. They all live far away yet I feel as if they should understand by now why I feel so desperate, desolate and isolated. It's sinking in that life has been an illusion; without an oasis, a gold nugget, not even a postcard to cling to, I have fallen into this remote place where all that I assumed would be turns out to be just a mound of bones, fragments of my past that meant zip, nada. I can't cry or run back to the beginning and fix it all so my journey continues into this desert of self, where nothing matters, especially within my selfish cravings. Laying on the bed just avoiding that one move that changes everything for the day; if I get up I am beckoned to answer for myself, be present; if I lay here, I am sick, lazy, a carcass of my own despair. There is not a magic wand, pill, or sweet talking shrink who can take away this inner disgust, the broken me. The worst thing is people feel bad cause I feel bad. I stuff my mouth with carbs and live for the darkness where I can drown in Discord with far away voices who make me feel, for a few hours, part of this crazy ass world. Waiting to feel something, show something for myself, just to be so-so is a bitch. I honestly have no idea how to turn this cradled cloud of deep sea blackness around. Anybody who's been here knows it's not a choice, a matter of pulling up my boot straps. Hell, I don't even have boots. The notion that we all have hard times, rough patches and so on makes me cringe. I have had ten years of a bad ass trip. Learning to know who I am led to discovering I will never, ever, feel okay in this world. My dad dumped me cause I am me. I was his gift he'd said so many years ago. Years ago. Truth is the killer man. Nobody really wants to hear your answer to "how are you?" now do they? In fact, anybody out there struggling with self loathing, depression, or just a miserable set of cards knows, being happy is a can fucking sardines. All our memories jam packed into one little tin, smothering us and all smelly. Ugly is what it is. Nice little therapists with pretty smiles and nods piss me off even more. "Oh, you have a lot on your plate right now." For the love of jesus, joseph, mary, gods and goddesses, YEAH, I gotta lot on my plate. I don't have a plate. I am spilling my shit all over the place, on the floor, in my bed, my plate is salty and wet, it's full of big ole cry it out tears. No one can fix this. I walk in circles, dry as burnt toast and nothing makes me want to make a move. I just stare at the sky, wondering why me. I know I am not alone; there's a lot of wild shit in this universe. I just wanted, just wanted, just wanted, a little piece of sweetness for a little while. Just a taste of something good for me. Is that such a bad thing? I am either asking too much or not trying at all. There is always a beginning, a middle and an end. Or is there? I feel like I have been in the middle of my worst day for a thousand sunsets. Now, all I can think is if, if, if, you know something I don't, maybe have a map to get me out of this barren mental tundra, can you give me a clue?