All Within My Hands.

Going to a shrink wouldn’t do me any good at this point. I’m too resistant. I’m not a fresh slate anymore. I’d be looking for answers, and I’m afraid I’d fail at communicating myself. I already have conceptions of things about myself. When I was absolutely clueless, it was a lot easier to notice things. It made sense two years ago. Two years ago was before any of this happened. It was the end of that era. I still had hope that I could finish that era as I expected it.

Instead I’m here, in the future. This is the future. This is depressing. I think over and over again the things I’d tell a shrink.

It’s my father’s fault, you see. I was emotionally neglected as a child. I’m offended whenever anybody tells me what to do, as I assume they think I’m an idiot for not having thought of it before. I assume nobody cares about my current emotional state and is only concerned with feeding me some trite answers that I would have been too stupid to have thought of before. If he had shown a modicum of understanding, maybe I wouldn’t be this way.

But, no, it’s not my dad’s fault. Let’s blame my mom! I was a momma’s boy. And I learned how manipulate my mom into doing things for me so I wouldn’t have to do them myself. A lifestyle of dependence and avoidance. As I emotionally distanced from my mom, I was NOT thrust into the world. Oh no, I was terrified of the world. So I learned how to avoid doing things that made me uncomfortable at all costs. I declined going on a 7th grade camping trip. I’ve taken multiple F’s to avoid doing any sort of getting-in-front-of-class. I’ve taken the path of least resistance, which has been arguably the hardest path possible.

I’ve sabotaged myself in the notion that either I’d be saved, or I’d suddenly Get It in the future. That’s what I thought happened to everybody when I was in High School. I thought people just *snaps fingers* got it and understood what they were supposed to do. I thought that’s how relationships were, too. I didn’t understand how people got to know each other. I thought seeing people afar was the norm, and people just went along with physicality according to some far-off morality that I tried to master.

A SwiftKickInTheAss™ doesn’t work with people that don’t blindly go along with things. I have to understand something before I do it. So I’m resistant to just about everything in the world. I’m not very good with the unknown. I’ve spent most of my life living inside a comfort zone. A bubble. I don’t see how I can reach beyond it. I don’t understand.

First I ask How. Then I ask Why. Then I ask How does that get me where I want to be? Then I wonder where I want to be. Then I realize I know nothing after all. I wasn’t asking looking for an answer, I was just looking. I don’t want an answer, I just want a hug. That’s how it’s been with my dad. He tells me what he would do, not what I should do. He has no empathy.

Or if he does, it obviously isn’t communicated. He’s just some ass who could just as easily go off and die. For years, I’ve wanted him dead. Kind of sad, but true. How long have I hated him? So many years. Funny, it’s been so long I just assumed it was the norm. I didn’t even notice my vengance.

So it’s me, isn’t it, doc? If I just got over myself and do what everybody else did, I’d be fine. Just shut off my brain and do what I’m told. Isn’t that what everybody else does? Be a sheep and I’ll be happy? But that’s not how it is, is it? It’s all I see. I’m told the same shit over and over again because they’re right, and oh look, I’m WRONG WRONG WRONG.

What is it I’m standing for? I used to know. I used to think I had a point to living like this, all repressed and shit. I didn’t want to be flawed like everybody else. I didn’t want to live a life of ignorance, despite the fact that’s precisely how I get by.

I’m probably just too hard on myself. Yet whenever I’m not hard on myself, I end up just giving up. No wait, that’s not what happens. Is it? If I’m hard on myself, I feel like shit and think I’m not good enough. If I’m not hard on myself, I just sort of tune it all out and repress the screaming in my mind. Somewhere in between is the happy moderation where I feel good about myself and feel like I’m getting somewhere.

So where am I going? I have no future. I have a past I’m trying to escape. It’s the problem I ran into with Xavier. It was a literary problem I could solve in fiction by having no solution. I’m referring to the main character of my NaNoWriMo which was more or less based upon things that happened to me, things I’m glad never happened to me, and things I wished could have happened to me. Alas I created him too well, and I couldn’t believably find a way to bring him out of his self-induced ignorance. Any attempt I made to try and get him to see the light, he would efficiently argue them away. I decided that I hadn’t fully made it out of the woods, either. So I can’t save Xavier until I save myself.

I tried thinking of how I realized in the first place that everything wasn’t right. That discontent permeated all of my life to the point where I could no longer ignore it. Something so distant from everything effecting things on the other end of the spectrum. You see papers russle, never realizing it was an earthquake on Mars, and you’re sitting in Paris. That’s how this journey has felt. Nothing seems to make sense. The answer is never where it should be.

Desparate for something else, I took the first escape opportunity that came my way. I thought’s how life happened. I’m a series of unfortunate events. Those discussions of locus of control speak to me.

How would I save Xavier? He’d have to reach a point where he could no longer stay in the same place. I won’t be able to write that until I reach a similar point, myself. That’s how strong my drive to stay this way is. I’m still terrified of the world.

I can’t seem to connect the dots. I’ve been given a million starting points. I’m just terrified of where each will lead. I’m terrified of a slipperly slope into something I can’t control. I’m terrified of losing control. I don’t see how such pointless beginnings lead to the end. The end? I don’t have a clue where I want to go. If I had some sort of inspiration, I’d work towards it. I have no aspirations. Don’t know what I want to be. Or do. Don’t know WHO I want to be. I’m pretty pathetic as I am. Ooops, there I go again. I may not be that pathetic, but this life is. I see now why people turn to suicide. Just was never my style. That’s how content I am in this numbness. I’d rather curl up in a hole and numb my mind rocking back and forth than be dead.

Worse? I have trouble believing this has to get worse. It’s BEEN worse. All I care about is avoiding that situation again. Worse? I’d just get bitchier and apathetic, claiming how life has dicked me over again. Oh boo hoo for me.

I’m not an easy patient. C`mon. I dare you to analyze me. I’m already biased against you. It’s hard enough openning up to one person. So much has happened since I left Leah. She was a good therapist to me. I’ll always feel bad for leaving like I did.

But therapy? I went before because I needed help figuring me out. Whether I recognize it or not, I havea pretty good grasp of me, scattered on the notecards of my mind. I just get depressed and turn everything off for weeks at a time. I don’t have the attention span to keep looking at myself like a science experiment. It gets depressing. Spend day in day out looking at yourself and you realize THAT isn’t a way to live, either. Numb feels better than self-critical.

I’m looking for an answer. A good, a path. I want somebody to tell me what to do.

Except I don’t like being told what to do.

I have created an environment which demotivates me, indeed. What’s the point if I don’t like living?