Lost and Searching

Fear

Suicide and Saying Goodbye

6 years ago, I tried to kill myself.

Well, kind of. I wanted to kill myself. I held the knife to my wrist and I pressed. I pressed as hard as I could. I held it there while angry tears ran down my face. I pressed it while people watched. While nobody tried to stop it.  I wanted to press it in, split the skin, and watch it bleed.

But I couldn’t. No matter how badly I didn’t want to be alive, I also didn’t want to be dead. I never managed to pierce the skin. I ended up putting the knife in a wall and walking away.

It was the culmination of a lot of years of depression and running from things. From growing up bullied, to falling for women that never wanted to be with me, to my parents divorce, to being jobless and broke. I had never dealt with anything, ever. I just pushed it all away and let it pile up in whatever space I could find.

It never went away though. It was always there, jut like the depression. And when the depression started getting worse, I became intensely introspective. This led me to find all of the things I tried to run from, and they came spilling out. I couldn’t stop them. I was drowning in them. I had no idea what to do anymore. Everything was pain.

On the night I had the knife, I was at a party. There were probably about 20 people in a relatively small apartment, with a fairly even mix of men and women. Everything was normal for most of the night. I was drunk and being more sociable than normal. I had even had a bit of luck with one girl, but then she left. The night was starting to wind down and I watched as people kept pairing off. Everyone was finding someone to hook up with, which is cool, but I was alone… again.

I’m not sure why this was the night that that was too much for me. It had always happened that way. There was never anyone around that wanted me. Nothing has really changed in regards to that. It always hurts when I’m the one that ends up all alone, but it was never that bad. I don’t know if it was the alcohol, or the growing depression, or what, but this was the night.

I can’t even tell you where I got the knife or why I had it. It was just sort of there. I think we may have been fucking around with them and trying to throw them into a wall. I can’t be certain. I was drunk and that part is hazy.

After I put the knife in the wall, I went back in and, as far as I can remember, tried to sleep. I slept fitfully for a while and then called my mom to see if she could pick me up as I didn’t have a car at the time.

I didn’t see anyone from that night for nearly 6 months. I didn’t really realize it at the time, but this was the final straw in a break with reality. It had been happening for a while, but that was when it all finally happened. After that, I stopped going out. I didn’t see anyone for months and I barely left the house. I pretty much didn’t leave unless I was getting food. I spent as much time as possible on the computer playing stupid little games to distract myself from all of the stuff that had piled up. However, I’ve written about all of this before. I’ve just never recognized it as what it really was: a break from reality. I took time away from the world to deal with all of my shit.


I don’t write about this with sadness. I never felt an ounce of melancholy while writing this tonight. In fact, I’m feeling better than I have in a good week. For some reason though, this story felt like it needed out finally. I wasn’t necessarily hiding it, I just didn’t know how to frame it and express it. I’ve mentioned it and sort of written about it before, but never in detail. It was time for it though. Time for one last tale.

I think this is a good final post for this blog. I don’t really have much need for it anymore. I’ll blog again, but most likely not here. This was the journey out of my deepest depression. While the story isn’t over and there’s still much I need to work through, this phase of it is done. It is time to move on to other venues and outlets.

So thank you, and goodbye.


Things I’ll Never Know

I dream of things I’ll never know
The way you feel in my arms
The taste of your lips on mine
The way you breathe in your sleep
The way you look at me and smile
All of the little fears you tell
All of the dreams you share
Sleep riddled words over breakfast
Hearty conversation at dinner
Confessions from a bottle of rum
Laughter from our favorite movies
Inside jokes and silly looks

I dream of these things
I think of these dreams
And I hurt
Because I know
I know.

You have these dreams too,
But not about me.


The One Who Never Left

The One Who Never Left

You are the one
Who never left
You are the one
Who never was

The apparition
Of my mind
The only love
I’ve never known

The One Who Never Left inset 3 2The One Who Never Left inset 2 The One Who Never Left inset 1


Barbed: Sweet Words for the Lonely

People always have things to say about my being single.

“You’ll find someone soon!”
“It’ll happen when you least expect it.”
“You’re lucky, you don’t have to put up with _____.”
“God has a plan for you.”

They think they’re helping, but they aren’t. They don’t know. It’s also different than when they tell this to their friends that have just gotten out of a relationship. I’ve never had one and I long ago passed the age where you’re supposed to have at least some semblance of an idea of what goes into dating. The older I get, the more difficult it is. The more I’m supposed to know, and the stranger it is that I don’t.

I won’t meet someone soon. I don’t go out. I don’t talk to people. I have the same group of friends I’ve had since I was 12. I can barely hold a conversation with the person at the checkout, so how am I supposed to meet someone and start dating? And when you expect to die alone, how can you possibly expect it less?

The people that say I’m lucky because I don’t have to put up with whatever bullshit relationship issue they choose are just fucking morons. They don’t know what it’s like to be alone like I am. When they look at being single, what they see is the freedom to do what they want without anyone to hold them accountable. They think of the annoying things that their partner does. They don’t think of the pain that comes with it, the crushing emotional and spiritual pain. They don’t remember all of the small things their partner does; the small comforting touches, the kind looks, or the intimacy that they share. They aren’t thinking about what it’s like looking at their bed and knowing that, for the X00th day straight, they get to share it with nobody. They also do not realize that when they are alone, they have touches and lovers to remember; that I have none of those small comforts. When I close my eyes and think of the women I have loved, I have to remember that not a goddamned one of them felt the same for me, that I have continually sought woman that want nothing to do with me.

And, finally… God did have a plan for me and I’m pretty sure I fucked it away 9 years ago. I know what it was, and I fucking ran. I hated Him and I told Him to take His plan and fuck off. I wasn’t going to do what He wanted after all He had let happen to me. I was angry, and spiteful, and a stupid fucking child. I made my biggest mistake for petty grievances and I’ve suffered the consequences. It’s not rational, I know, but in spite of all I have seen and learned, I can’t shake my faith in a Higher Power. I know all of the logical reasoning against a Higher Power, but there’s still that voice at the back of my mind that says “But what if you’re wrong?”, and so I believe, even if I can’t yet bring myself to live it. And if I believe, then I have to accept that He has plans, and that there are pros and cons to following them. I can’t dwell on the what-ifs, but I can see where the path diverged.


Finding Truths in Broken Places: Attempting to Move Forward With My Life

I don’t write the long insightful posts anymore. I want to, but it’s not in me right now. I start them, but I never finish them because, oftentimes, they are just rehashings of the same things I’ve written about, which is not productive. Because of this, i have spent the last few months in a particularly introverted and introspective phase. I have been looking at all of this stuff, and I have been trying to deal with it.

Why do I need love? Why do I love those that will not love me? Why does this all hurt me so much? What can I do to change it?

I have also dealt with some of this in less than ideal ways. I mildly latched onto someone from my own history, whom I have known for years but has always just been around. Again, I knew nothing would come of it, but I felt that I needed someone to having feelings for, because I was hurting inside. There were a couple of very drunken nights were I found truth at the expense of what little dignity I had left. I pissed her off and creeped her out, but I think part of why it was her is because I knew that things would work out in the end, that they would go back to their old, awkward ways once I worked my shit out. And they are almost back there.

In the past few weeks I have finally, truly found that I am not ready. I saw it before, but I never understood it or knew it. It was always something abstract, but now it is concrete. I am still broken on a fundamental level. I still cannot love myself, not even a little. I actually quite actively hate who and what I am. I want it all to be different.

I also found that my attachment to women that will not love me comes from my unhappiness. I want, more than anything, to be happy. The reason I look to a relationship is because the only times in my life that I can remember being happy is when I had someone I cared for. My life outside of those scant few incidences is mired in depression, self-loathing, sadness, and anger. I have lived with depression all of my life, but the happy moments were those when I had someone. In them, I could find the love I can not show myself, even if they did not love me. I could see my love reflected in them, and I could be happy.

But this is not healthy for me. It is hiding from the issues. I’ve never dealt with my depression, just survived it as best I could, even when I almost could not. It has pervaded my life and run it for many years. I have put it off and tried to hide it at every turn. I don’t have a way to deal with it yet, but at least I am now aware of this.

All of this leads me to the knowledge and true understanding that a relationship will not solve anything for me, nor is it likely to be particularly healthy for me at this time. Knowing that does not make the pain of it less, but at least I know it. I still have the needs and desires, but now I can understand when they are misplaced and, more importantly, why. I still have no desire greater than a relationship, but I know that I need to put it away for now, until I’m in a better place. I don’t really want to though. It’s like giving up on your dreams. It fucking sucks.

So, now, I try to accept my current reality and figure out how best to deal with it; to fix it. I don’t know how, or even if I can fix what is wrong with me, but I have to try. There is a distinct possibility that the condition is permanent, and that I will never have what it is I desire most, but I have to try and put off that fear and focus on doing what I can. I have no plan. I have no idea of where to start. I just know I must.

 


Maladaptive

When I wake up in the morning,
I lie in bed for an hour,
Our maybe just a half
I close my eyes
And let my mind wander
I think
And I dream
Of you,
Or you,
Or maybe even you.
And in this time,
I am not alone
As long as my eyes are closed
I am not alone.

It hurts when I must
My eyes open
And reality seeps in
No longer can I hide
No longer am I loved
For you are not here
And my life,
Just as my bed,
Is empty
But for me

I would give
What little I have
For my dreams
To come real
If even for just an hour


Writing to You: Ghosts of What Never Was

Do you ever spare a thought,
For the one you forgot,
Your misbegot?

Do I cross your mind,
With a thought unkind,
Or am I left behind?

But I know I do not,
For in everything I sought,
I knew it was all for naught.

Because I can see,
That it’s not me,
And we will never be.

No matter what I do,
Nor how much good I sew,
It is not enough for you.

I want to stop writing to you, or you, or even you. It’s pathetic at this point. There’s nothing but pain and sadness in the words I can give to you, for that is all you’ve given me.

I want to write to Her. I know there is something happy to write about there. Even if she turns out to be you, there will be a period of happy things to write. I expect to die alone, so I very much look forward to those brief times when you are Her, even though I die each time She becomes you.


It’s Okay to be Fat, but Only if You’re a Woman

You don’t read much about male body issues. I read a lot about body image issues, but it’s pretty much all written by females and for females. I can’t recall a single article I’ve ever read about male body image issues. It’s as if they don’t exist. The world is trying to get women to feel better about their bodies, but they’re pretty much ignoring the men. Women aren’t the only ones with body fears.

I have pretty serious body image issues. I mean, how could I not? Yes, I’m 6′ tall, but I weigh upwards of 550 pounds. Even when I weighed 350, I hated my body. Now, I wear pants with a 56″ waist. I wear size 5XLT shirts. There is literally no store in my town of 180,000 people that sells clothing in my size. There was, but it closed down last year. I have to buy my clothing online and I pay at least $40 for a single t-shirt, and that’s the cheapest item I buy. The selection is fucking horrible too. Women have an entire industry dedicated to making cute clothes for big girls. There is nothing of the sort for men. If you are over a 2XL, good fucking luck finding something cool to wear. Even the big & tall places think big guys only want to wear suits, button ups, or polos. I want to fucking wear geek wear. I want Star Wars and Deadpool, not plaid button-ups. You would think the comic book industry would understand this.

I only own 7 shirts. Not because I don’t want more, but because they are the only ones I could find that didn’t suck. I own one hoody. It’s literally the only one I could find, and they don’t make it anymore. Pants are easier to find, but they pretty much only want to make cargo pants, dress pants, or jeans. I’m not sure if that’s a universal thing though as even when I was less fat, I only wore Dickies pants and shorts. Really, they don’t make much clothing for big guys and that which they do make is super fucking expensive and not at all a style I want to wear.

This is about more than just clothes though. The US already hates fat people, but they seem to hate fat men the most… unless they’re funny. In media, the only fat men are either constantly shamed and the butt of all jokes, or they are the one making the jokes. John Goodman, Billy Gardell, Chris Farley, John Belushi, Ralphie May, Gabriel Iglesias. These are some of the very few positive male role models of size that I have. Of them all, Goodman is the only one that ever had anything other than funny roles. I realize that women don’t have many either, but they do have Oprah, Melissa McCarthy, Mo’Nique, Roseanne Barr, Mia Tyler (pretty sure there isn’t a SINGLE big male model…), and so many more. Big women in media still take shit for being big, but they are respected and don’t have to rely solely on how funny they are to get respect. They can get respect because of who they are, not how they act. And people stick up for them.

This is also evident in porn. There’s an entire and very large (no pun intended) genre of porn dedicated to large women. For the most part, they are not portrayed as disgusting or gross and are even referred to as “Big Beautiful Women” (BBW). There’s really no corresponding genre for men (I’ve looked). Yes, porn is directed at men, but there’s really no representation of big men in porn. If they are there, it is purely for ridicule and disgrace. The men in porn are almost always muscular, or at the very least, skinny. Even the creepy ones aren’t fat.

Men don’t take as much crap in the media for being big though, so that could help explain why there is less talk about body issues with men. Men are generally allowed a bit more “wiggle” room in their size. The acceptable size for men is a bit larger than it is for women. That doesn’t mean all sizes are accepted though. If you’re exceptionally large (as in, not just 15-25 lbs overweight), you’re probably going to get dirty looks because of your size. I know women go through this as well, but they have support. They have people that speak out for them and help to change this perception. Men don’t really have support like that.

Women, now, are taught to embrace their body. That all types are okay and that you should not feel shame for your body type. Guys don’t really get that. Nobody really talks about our bodies. There are no blogs dedicated to making us all feel as though we are normal. There are no photography exhibits showing off all of the different sizes of men or nationwide commercials saying that real men have curves. Society says that men do not have issues with their body image. They deal with personality but ignore that our bodies affect us the way that a woman’s body affects her. Men are not supposed to have body issues. That’s a woman issue.

In the end, I’m not trying to say that women have it easier. Not at all. Our society is still gender-biased towards males. I know that this issue is difficult for both sexes. What I am trying to say though, is that men do not have the support that women have. If you are not a physically fit alpha male trying to dominate everything in sight, you are not considered at all. If you have issues with how you look you’re told to suck it up because nobody cares.

Or, I could be completely off with all of this and I just haven’t looked hard enough/don’t know where to look. I don’t know. I just know that as I wrote this blog and read others about body issues, I felt very alone as a big man having issues with his size. Because of that, I lashed out some. I know that women have it rough as well, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get to be upset about this either.


Happy Birthday, Motherfucker!: Facing Fears and Gaining Hope

I turn 27 today. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

I’ve typed about 8 different blogs out so far. I really don’t know how to shape this one. I already did an end of year ‘What Happened in My Life’ post, so that’s out. Yes, it makes more sense to do on my birthday, but I already did it so I’ll skip it now.

Getting older always reminds me of my fears. I’ve worked on some, but most are still there. I’m no longer terrified of leaving my house, but I still have issues in social situations. I put myself out there and fell for someone again, and while that did blow up in my face, it didn’t drive me as deep and dark as it has in the past.

I don’t write about it much anymore, but my fear of dying alone has never left me, I just don’t focus on it as much anymore. I don’t always have time. But, on the day when I am definitively older – to the point of increasing the number that is stated when asked my age – it is hard to ignore this particular fear. It will never leave me until I have proof of other outcomes. I had always known I would have sex at least once, so that didn’t do a single thing to change my fears. If anything,  it cemented them. Yes, someone was willing to have sex with me, but she didn’t want anything to do with me in the ways that I need. She wanted friendship and I do not need friends. At least, not from someone I want to know in a more intimate way. I’ve got a lot of friends, but there is nobody in this world that I am aware of that wants anything more from me. And knowing that hurts. It hurts so fucking much.

I wish this fear would go away, but I cannot shake it. It has been with me longer than I can remember. I want to be done with it, but I don’t know how to excise it. I can ignore it most days, but it is always there on some level.

 

I don’t know where I was/am going with this. In spite of all that I wrote above, this year has been good to me. Yes, I got fired and I was broken hearted, but I’ve been working on a lot of stuff and getting myself right for once. In all, I was happy this year. I haven’t been able to say that in a long time. I’m still pretty fucked up, but it doesn’t seem as bad as it was before.

I don’t fucking know. So much for an awesome birthday post. Instead, I bawled my eyes out and lost my way in the middle. I’m such a mess. haha At least now, when I laugh at that, it’s in a joking ‘oh, you!’ kind of way rather than a sardonic ‘You stupid little fuck up’ kind of way. I’m still not where I want to be, but I’m working on it.

 

26 was for working on things and getting past stuff. I started a lot of things last year, I hope to see them start paying off during 27. I have hope that 27 will be a good year. I don’t think it will be the one I am hoping for, but I think it will lead to it. I’ll not find what I am looking for just yet, but I think by the end of it I will be closer to finding it. 26 was good, but 27 will be better.


I Didn’t Want to Say Goodbye

I’m sorry things got weird. We had a connection, I thought that meant it might lead to something more than friendship. The movies lied to me, they told me that’s how it works. They don’t bother telling me that most times, it doesn’t mean anything.

How was I supposed to know otherwise? Nobody told me that part. You just seemed like an awesome chick and we got along so well, so I thought we could be more than friends. I didn’t mean to make it awkward, I just didn’t want to be alone anymore.

I got confused. Nobody ever listens to me, so when you did, I thought it was because you liked me back. My friends never treated me that way, so I missed the cues. It didn’t help that you’re flirty, but I should’ve known it didn’t mean anything, it never does. I should’ve known I wasn’t special to you.

I still think about you; wonder how you are. I could ask, but it hurts to talk to you. I’ve gotten better about not looking at your Facebook profile, and I deleted the pictures you sent. I wish we could still be in each others lives, but I’m too ashamed of how it ended and too hurt by the loss. Maybe another time, but not now.

Goodbye, and remember that I cared for you once.


Being Poor: One More Thing to Overcome

Sometimes it’s hard to ignore or put away thoughts about just where your life is and how far you are from somewhere you’d like to be.

I have so many ideas of what I want. I do not seek grandiose things, I just want a simple life where I can provide for myself and be able to do stuff if I feel like it. And I’m not talking about trips or buying major items. I’m talking pay may bills and have $100 extra a week to play with. I had that for a short time and enjoyed it. I liked being able to do stuff and not having to worry about whether I would pay a bill or eat.

I’m okay with being poor. I grew up poor. I didn’t know it at the time though. My family did the best out of all of the friends I had, but that was relative. Compared to the rest of the people, we were lower middle class. It wasn’t horrible. As far as I know, there wasn’t any government assistance, but we definitely got school clothes at goodwill and didn’t eat out often. When we did go out for a big family meal, it was to Olive Garden. Growing up, I thought that was a really fancy place to go. I didn’t find out until college that that was where other people went for cheap lunches. They went there for lunch like I went to Taco Bell (to get the $1.98 meal).

However, I can’t say it was rough growing up. I never wanted for anything, we just didn’t get to get much extra stuff. It never seemed bad though. We had what we needed and that was fine. I wanted more as all kids do, but it didn’t degrade my childhood.

Can’t say the same about my adult life though. I’ve lived well below the poverty level from the time I moved out of the house. Throughout college, my dad helped me out because I had issues finding work. I got by, but barely. I had enough to pay rent and eat, if I rationed the money well. Living in California wasn’t too bad. I lived with my Aunt and Uncle and they helped take care of me. For that, I will always be grateful. I hope that one day I can repay my Aunt for that kindness.

Living in Texas was a different story though. There it was always a struggle. Even after I got a job I struggled. I frequently had to choose between food and rent, and rent always won. There were days on end where I didn’t eat. I went to bed hungry more nights than not. And I woke up hungry too. Went to work hungry. I wouldn’t eat until I got off work and even then, it wouldn’t be much. It got desperate at times. I gave into impulses to eat that I would never consider again. I remember feeling lucky when I had enough money to buy a bag of rice and a package of hot dogs. That lasted me 2 weeks.

The greatest day was when I happened to have an extra $10. I used it to go to Whataburger and get myself a honey barbecue chicken sandwich meal. At that point, I was so hungry that it took everything in me not to eat it like an animal. I barely succeeded; it was gone in under 3 minutes, at most. I remember sitting at the bus stop after that meal and nearly passing out because my body was shutting down to conserve the energy that it had found; it knew it would be a while. Another time, my roommate went out of state and he told me to eat whatever he had in the fridge. Once he was gone and I checked it, I found some stuff, but the main thing was a kielbasa sausage. I remember heating up the pan to eat it (I hadn’t had protein in about a week at this point) and I was so hungry that I only managed to cook about 1/3 of it. The rest I gorged on while it was still cold because I just couldn’t wait for it to get hot. Took me a while to be able to eat kielbasa again after that.

It wasn’t always that bad though. There were weeks when i was able to buy groceries, but even the best weeks saw me spend no more than about $30 on food. Most weeks it was between $10 and 20. I didn’t have much, but I managed to survive. I never thought it could get worse than that though. And then it did.

After a year at my job, I got fired. Wasn’t for poor performance, my boss just couldn’t afford it any longer. Not sure why. He never let me work more than 30 hours a week even though I was supposedly full time. Either way, after I got fired, I ended up calling my dad and by the end of the week he was down there and we were packing my stuff to move me back to Oregon. When we got back, I went everywhere looking for work. I applied at pretty much every single automotive shop in town and got turned down at every turn. I felt like I was doing all that I could, but apparently it wasn’t good enough. My dad ended up kicking me out of his place because he was tired of me not having a job.

That’s when I ended up moving in with my mom and grandma. I still couldn’t pay rent, but I did manage to get food stamps. And for 2 years, the only ‘income’ that I had was $200 a month in food stamps. The only time I bought things for myself was when i got Christmas or birthday money, and that generally went towards clothing or other essentials. I’ve talked about this period of my life at length, but never this aspect of it. I had nothing at this time. My mom tried to help me out where she could, but she wasn’t doing much better than I was and so we did what we could to get by. Food boxes, sales, whatever.

Eventually, I did find work. And I felt like a king! I was making $10 an hour working 60 hours a week. It was rough, but it was soooo worth it. Because of that, I was able to buy myself stuff. I bought nicer clothing (not much, I still only own a weeks worth of clothing), a flat screen tv, a PS3, a blu ray player for my mom, and even a trip to Vegas to see Rammstein. It was the best year, monetarily, that I have ever had. But it couldn’t last.

You see, throughout those 3 years without work, I was dodging bill collectors and deferring and forbearing my student loans, had a couple hospital trips I had to pay for, and a few other things. Eventually, it all caught up with me. I managed to avoid garnishment (or worse), but it meant that I had to start shelling out the majority of my income to pay stuff. And thus, the ability to buy myself what I wanted ended.

Then, to make matters worse, the overtime stopped and I lost a large chunk of my income to that. Suddenly, I was struggling to make ends meet again. I managed, but barely. I still got to do stuff on occasion, but very little. And though I had still been poor even with the OT, I was poorer still. Even in my more grandiose times, I still made less than 25,000 in a year. Made even less than that the following year. And now I’m struggling even more, having been outsourced at the end of 2012 (right before fucking Christmas, no less). While I did find work quickly, I am only working a few hours a week and relying mostly on unemployment to get by.

In an odd twist though, I worry less about my money and food now than I ever have before. I couldn’t tell you why. I haven’t been to the store in 2 weeks because I don’t have money for groceries, but I’m alright with it. I’ve managed to eat. Ironically, I worry about food more when I have money to buy it. When I can afford to eat, I worry about not having enough and end up overindulging because I’m afraid of not having anything to eat. Having been there before, I know just how scary it is not to eat. But when I can’t afford to eat, there’s a disconnect. I know I don’t have money for it, so I put it out of my mind and worry about making sure I have a place to live first.

As it is now, I have been poor for my entire life. More so in my adult life, but poor nonetheless. In a way, I am used to it, but it is not what I want. As I said before, I don’t want much, I just want more than I have. I’m not afraid to work for it, I just can’t seem to find ways to work for it. I had found a job that I wanted to stick with and try to move up in, but they ended up deciding that it was better to send my job to the Philippines where the wages are cheaper. I found a new job, but I get almost no hours.

All I have left that I can think of is art, but art is such a hard thing to make money on, it seems. I can make all the art I want, but unless people like it , how will I make money? I’m good, I know I am, but I’m nowhere near a lot of others. There is still much that I have to learn about making art. I would love to make it my career, somehow, but I don’t know that it is possible. I’ll not give up at it, but I’ll most likely always have to have a day job and day jobs rarely pay all that well.

One last sidetrack before I end this: Being poor effects a lot more than just my ability to eat and take care of myself. It also makes it that much harder to find someone. It’s another negative tick to add to it all. On top of being fat, awkward, and broken, I’m also poor as shit. I mean, I can barely take care of myself, how am I supposed to take a woman out or do stuff for her if we end up dating? I’m the type that won’t necessarily shower someone with gifts, but that wants to be able to take care of them and pay for stuff when we go out. I don’t want to mooch on someone, I want to be the one to provide. And being poor inhibits that.


A Bed Built for One

When I lie in bed is when I feel loneliest. There is no room for anyone else here; it is built just for me. I lie down in my bed for one and remember the scant few times that I have shared a bed with someone else. I have never slept better than those few times.

I miss how it feels to have a woman beside me. To hear her breathing softly as I hold her, her taste still lingering in my mouth.

Some part of me has always known I was not meant to be alone, but circumstance and fear have keep me there. I’m working on the fear, but the circumstance eludes me.

I can’t keep talking about this, but I also can’t stop thinking about it. It isn’t healthy to dwell on this but I don’t know how not to. I try to put it away, but when I try to create art, or write, or sleep, or have a passing idle moment, the thought creeps in unbidden, like a clumsy thief.

It has driven me to the edge before and it threatens to do it again.

No, actually, it won’t. I am stronger than this. The problem here is that sleep approaches and I have to crawl into my bed for one and there is no room here to hide from my fears of loneliness. I am capable of living in isolation, but that doesn’t mean I have any desire to.

I am just as lost now as I have ever been. Lord, give me guidance.


Tactile Void and Sexual Experiences

Much of my life has been used fulfilling my senses. I have watched thousands of movies, listened to hundreds of thousands of songs, tasted and smelled hundreds of amazing foods, but in all that, I have rarely ever touched or felt anything. Touch is the sense I have used the least. It is also the sense I want to use the most.

Each sense has one thing that I associate with it, in that, there is one thing I think of most when I think of that sense. Sound is music; sight is art, whether is be drawings, paintings, movies, pictures, or whatever; taste and smell are food; touch is women. I realize that there are other things that go with each one, but if I look at my own life and how I fulfill and appease each of the senses, those are the things I use.

In the end, everything boils down to a sensory experience. I have many memories dedicated to 4 of the 5, but very, very few dedicated to tactile experience. It is a void in my life, and one that I mourn and regret. I crave it far more than any other. I feel its powerful pull all too often.

I miss physical contact more than anything. It’s what I see in my head when I think of being with someone. The feel of a woman is… amazing. All soft and smooth. Even as I type this, I can feel my hands burn at the memory. I miss it and I yearn for it. The void is painful.

I’ve mentioned before that I really want to be held. I’ve never been held before. It’s an awkward proposition considering my size, but I want to know what it is like. I’ve also only been touched a few times. I have touched, but I can only recall a very few times where a woman reached out and initiated contact or did anything more than return a hug.

I cherish the memories I have that are related to my sense of touch. They are some of the most powerful I have. Lying next to a woman, feeling her pressed against me, warm and soft. Running my hands over her hips, her stomach, her pubic hair. Pressing my lips to her shoulder as her hair brushes across my face. Her head resting on my arm as it passes beneath her. Running my hand deeper, feeling her thighs press against the sides of my hand as her pubic hair scratches my hand; my fingers seeking her out. Her legs opening and draping across me as I brush over her hood and part her lips. Her warm stickiness on my fingers as I slide my fingers inside of her. The way her breath feels on my head as she sighs, rolling towards me to allow me to take her breast in my mouth. How hot she is beneath my palm and around my fingers as they coax her further. Everything about her is softer and wetter than I could have ever imagined possible. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever felt…

And I will never know it again. At least, not from her. I don’t even know if I will feel it from another. As beautiful as it was, it is also painful knowing that I have never felt better than I did at that moment and I can never have it again. The memory is haunting. The thought that I can never feel her again is almost enough to drive me to tears. The thought that I may never feel anyone that way again is enough to drive me to tears.

It isn’t really her that I miss though. I knew I would never have her. It is the tactile experience. I have always craved it and that brief shining moment with it makes me want it all the more. It wasn’t enough to have it for a weekend. I want to know it for the rest of my life.

And, though I have described the sexual experience here, that is just an aspect of it. I want all that goes along with it, which I could not have on my trip. As beautiful as the experience I had was, it was very much lacking. I never got to feel her lips on mine; never got to just sit beside her and hold her while watching nothing at all on TV; never got to really hold her and have her hold me back. The sexual component was amazing, but what I want most of all is the quiet, intimate part of it.


The Missing Piece

Until I finally have what it is I have searched for my entire life, I will always feel the void of it. I know and I understand that it is not the time for it yet, but I can never fully put it out of my mind. It is a part of me. It hurts me. It has destroyed me in the past. I am doing all that I can to put it out of my mind, but it is still there, waiting and lurking.

It has brought me to tears several times this week. This week was huge. I got a promotion I have been working towards for months, I got a new avenue for art, and I got my finances in better shape for the first time in many years. I am so incredibly happy for all that I got this week, but there is that lost and lonely part of me that mourns that in all my happiness, I have no one to share it with.

I’ve thought about it more though, but in a different way. Though I am thinking about being alone, I am thinking more of what it is that I crave and need in this loneliness rather than just ‘I’m alone, I hate this, give me anything!!’. I see now that what it is that I crave is not some hyper-sexual goddess to fuck my brains out. What I want most of all is someone that I can sit with and talk with and share my life with. I don’t see much meaning in doing things for myself. I’ve never cared much for myself. I want more to share who I am with others. I am fully aware of who I am, I don’t need to do things to edify myself.

Except, I do. I am a broken individual. I have a lot of issues I need to sort through and I need to learn to actually do things for myself. I have been working on this; it’s why I bought the tablet and other things to advance my art, but I still only do it in very few ways. I need to get a handle on my life. I need to be the one in control of it. What do I really have to share with another right now? A broken shell that is waiting to be filled. There’s more than that, but my personality, intelligence, and whatever else will be overshadowed by my overwhelming sense of brokenness. I do have much to offer, but I don’t think I’m ready to really offer it yet. I want to, have wanted to for years, but I don’t know that I actually can yet. I can’t know until it happens though.

I have no knowledge in this subject at all. I just know what it is I want and what I want to do.


Stalling pt. 2: The Truth

Blah, blah, blah.

Write, write, write.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

 

I want to write. I want to use this to progress in my life. But as I stated in the last post, I’m stalled. This goes deeper than just my desire and ability to write. I’m having trouble getting started in other things in my life.

 

I have been afraid to get started painting or making art. I’ve made it in fits and spurts, but I haven’t really started in earnest yet. I want to, but I’m afraid to. It’s daunting. I know it’s what I should be doing, but it’s hard to start. I’m afraid to fail at it. It’s everything and if I fail, I’ll be more lost than ever before. That thought stops me in my tracks. Because of it, I am trying to figure out every possible aspect of it so that I can solve all the problems before I encounter them and assure that I make it happen. I want to do all that I can to make sure that I succeed because I don’t know what to do if I don’t.

 

It’s absurd, really. I cannot solve all the problems. I cannot even conceive of all the problems. But, fear is not rational. Fear is the mind killer. But I do not know how to overcome it. It has always held me back. Fear of self. Fear of others. Fear of being alone. Fear of doing the wrong thing. Fear of many things. It eats away at me. I don’t know where it came from. I can’t seem to get past it.

 

Everyone always tries to encourage me and tell me to ‘Just go out and do it’, but I don’t understand that concept. How can you just go do it? What if you make the wrong first step and it messes everything up? Then you’re on an entirely different path and have to figure all of that out, and if you get another thing wrong you’re rethinking it all again. I don’t really get ‘winging it’. I can do it in some aspects, but the big things are too big for me to do that. It all has to be planned and deviance is strife, and strife is something that is to be avoided.

 

It’s insane, really. To think that I have to account for all possible outcomes before I can even start. I might actually be insane though, or at least partially so. I know I’m something. I think it might be asperger’s, but schizophrenia or a number of other things may be the issue. I’ve never been able to find out though. I can self diagnose all I want, but I need someone outside to tell me. Because of this not knowing, living life is like playing with only half the book. I can get some of the stuff, but other stuff is just… missing. Sometimes you find pages here and there and fill in blank spots, but it’s slow going. I feel broken because of it. I’ve always felt broken.

 

I have to figure it out in spite of that though. I know I can’t live in fear, but I don’t really know any other way. All I really know is this is no way to live. I don’t like it. I haven’t particularly enjoyed most of the life I’ve led so far. It’s actually been pretty shitty.

 

God damnit. All I can think right now is ‘I just want someone that I can share this with. I’m tired of doing it alone’. I know I have family and friends I can talk with, but… I’m afraid to do that too. I don’t want them to think less of me. Another absurd statement, but it is what it is. This is when I feel like I want someone the most. That won’t change anything though, I’ll still be the broken little boy. I’m still very, very lost and the more I get stuck in my head, the more lost I feel.

Not only have I not gotten started with painting, I have also completely stopped eating healthy and exercising. I keep saying I’m going to start both of them tomorrow, but I don’t. I want to, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

I haven’t actually done shit in the past 3-ish weeks except write and work. A lot of it stems back to my trip. Even though I got much to think about out of it, it was still a failure of sorts. It was good, and I had to do it, but I still failed. I left early and though I left with other things, I did not leave with what I had really wanted. I’m still alone, even if I still have her as a friend. It hurts to lose that hope. I know that I’ll find it again, but I liked the thought that it might be in front of me already.

 

More than it hurting, it pissed me off. I’m very tired of thinking I see it and misinterpreting it. I’m also angry that I see it all around me yet I can’t fucking have it. I don’t understand why I can’t. I’ve always felt as though it was withheld from me by something larger than me and that it was dangled in front of me and then taken back. I have always felt that it was entirely out of my hands. I have heard so many fucking times how nice I am and how they hope I find someone because I ‘deserve’ it. It’s actually pretty demeaning to hear that, especially from someone you were hoping to pursue. If I somehow deserve it but have not had it, it means there is something defective in me that keeps it away. I don’t think I deserve it though. I don’t see how one can deserve to be loved. Being kind and good doesn’t entitle you to anything, except that society says it does. Except, society shows that it doesn’t. It is the ruthless and the cutthroat that progress the farthest.

 

I’ve gone from crying while writing this to being so upset and angry that I wanted to hit something as hard as I could until I bled. Obviously, I found a tender thread. I’m so tried of all of this. I just want to skip ahead to where I already have it all figured out. There isn’t a single fucking thing in any of the 36 entries I’ve made that has been even remotely easy for me. I’m playing on raw nerves here. I am so incredibly broken and hurt and because I’ve run from it all for so long, I have to deal with it all at the same fucking time.

 

I’m so very tired of being fucked up. I’m tried of being uncomfortable. I haven’t felt remotely comfortable in years. I’m tired of feeling lost and powerless. I just want to feel like I have a purpose and a place. I had one, once. I threw it away though. Finding a new one has been an impossible task.

 

I really do feel like I’m supposed to do something with art though. I pray for guidance and wisdom a lot. I know I fucked up the last time and I don’t want to do it again. I don’t want to be a fuck up. I have been, but I want to change it.

 

I haven’t been 100% idle though. I bought a graphics tablet the other day that should be here Wednesday. This means I’ll be able to start making more art through digital means. I was supposed to start saving for a car, but I really felt like I needed to get this to advance my art. On top of making digital art, it will allow me to create stencils for my painting and other projects. I’ve also requested a shift to nights at my job so that I can paint when I get off work. As it is now, I find it very difficult to paint. If need be, I can paint before work but I do not feel creative then at all. And I can’t paint after work, I get off at 2 am and compressors are loud.

 

But, those are just two small steps. I need to be doing more, I just don’t know what else I could be doing right now. I just have to power through this. So what that my trip wasn’t what I wanted? It was still good. I know more about myself now than I did before I left. There’s no need for it to keep me down any longer.


Searching for the Line on the Horizon

I’m still adrift. I think I can see something on the horizon, but I don’t know if it is an island, a ship, mainland, or a figment of my imagination borne of desperation. I’m leaning towards it being real. I should be desperate, I’ve been here for years, but I don’t feel desperate. I’ve just never actually tried to get anywhere before, so I have no idea what I’m doing here. I’m making it all up as I go along. I don’t really have any tools for all of this. This is all virgin territory for me.

For the majority of the day, I have been getting wisps of thoughts that come up. They’re mostly unclear, just the idea of a concept, but when they surface I find that I am struggling to hold back tears.

Comfort. That’s what I’m looking for. I don’t actually now what it is. To be honest, I almost looked it up in the dictionary before I started writing this bit. That is how foreign the word is to me. I have nothing I can look back on and think ‘Yeah, that’s what comfort feels like’. I’m sure there are things, but they were long enough ago that I can’t remember them. I think comfort is happiness, but more than that. It is prolonged happiness coupled with contentedness and so much more.

Really though, that’s just a guess. I can’t actually tell you what it is. I’ve sought it everywhere, but have never found it. The bottom of the bottle didn’t have it. Nor did the peak of an acid trip. That last bite of amazing food didn’t give it to me either. There’s only one avenue left that I am aware of that I haven’t ever really had the chance to try, but there’s a good possibility that will be as hollow as food, drugs, or drink. If I don’t find it in the arms of another, I’m out of ideas and don’t know what to do from there. If I have to find it within myself, I think I’m fucked. I’ve never found a whole lot in there. It’s mostly just survival stuff. I don’t know how to thrive and prosper, just eek by.

I’m not really certain though. Most days I would say I’m neutral. Not bad, but not good. There are still more bad days than good, but there are more neutral days than the others combined.

Today, however, has been more towards the bad side. I’ve been off since I woke up from a very vivid dream in which I died. I remember feeling the top of my head and my hand ripped off by shrapnel from a crashing plane (there was much, much more but I’ll not go into it). I remember being conscious afterwards in the dream, and as I faded I woke up, startled. My hand and forehead were numb from an awkward sleeping position. Ever since then, I’ve been struggling with this day. I was cooking breakfast this afternoon and as I was walking back to my room to eat I got the most overwhelming need to cry and I have no idea why. The whole day I have felt down with no real explanation of why.

I’ve been trying to use music to drown it all out. It isn’t really working, but at least the music is good. I’ve spent the day listening to the new Mumford & Sons album, Babel, on repeat. It is soothing, in a way, but it’s not what I need. It is only doing so much. I’m still struggling to find what it is I need.

I did stumble upon something though. I was running around the ‘net, searching for stuff that makes me laugh. I came back to youtube to see what my favorite channels had posted since last I’d been there and I came across a video by the ever amazing Hannah Hart. In it, she talks about stuff I have been dealing with for a while now. She talks about fearing to put effort into things and fail at them. Putting effort in can be very difficult, and the thought of caring enough to do it only to fail can be paralyzing. I don’t try for much anymore because of it… because I have failed at things before. You can’t get what you want if you don’t try though, and I have rarely ever gotten what I want. All I ever seem to get is what is willing to be given to me.

I just don’t know how to take that first step and just do it. It all looms so large in front of me. The possibility of greatness is there, but there is also the chance that it will all fall apart. I’m coming to a tipping point though, I think. Some day soon, I’m going to have to decide that the thought of living as I am now forever is worse than what I fear might, maybe, possibly, probably not happen. I know better, I really do, it’s just difficult. I know that once I do it I’ll look back and wonder why I waited so long, but that first step is the hardest. Everything hangs on the first step. If you don’t take it, you can’t fail. You also cannot succeed though.