03/04/2009

Schizoid personality?

I can say that I feel completely empty, and it doesn’t even really matter.  There’s something about feeling completely empty that is somehow okay, if you can say it with the proper tone of voice.  I suppose they think I’m joking, because I would never actually feel completely empty, as I am, in fact, a perfectly well-adjusted normal person.

I’m not sure you can understand, really, what empty means.  I feel emotion, sometimes, but it’s insubstantial.  It barely brushes against me before it’s gone and I’m left with a hollow echo.  Everything barely touches me.  Compliments mean nothing to be, as does castigation.    The anger, indifference, acceptance, irritation, happiness, and sorrow of others mean nothing to be.  Even the things I do “for fun” aren’t really all that fun.  I would be fine without them.  I would be fine sitting alone in an empty room, because that’s all I’m really doing anyway.

I don’t even know why I cut myself.  I don’t get anything from it, aside from a few brief moments of pain.  I’m completely indifferent to the damage that I do to myself because it’s mostly irrelevant.  The blood, the scars…it doesn’t even touch me. 

These words are ultimately meaningless too.

I don’t find it particularly upsetting.  The self-mutilation, the boredom, the indifference, the loneliness, the depression.  I guess on some level I worry about how my actions will affect others, but I don’t really care how they affect me.  On some level, I know that I’m miserable, but at the same time being miserable really means nothing to me.  It’s insubstantial, like everything else, brushing up against my skin but unable to penetrate into the cold, hard block of ice that constitutes my inner core.

As Elliott Smith would say, “Everything means nothing to me.”

I am completely indifferent to other people.  I’m 22 years old, I’ve never been in a relationship, and it doesn’t bother me.  I have no real desire to be in a relationship.  I have no friends with whom I am particularly close, and this, too, doesn’t really bother me.  My only close relationships are with my family, and even those are mostly maintained through a sense of obligation.  I get nothing from them.

In my own way, I am completely alone, wishing only to be more alone.  There is nothing in this world worth living for, and there is nothing worth dying for.  There is nothing even worth existing for.