I feel like I don’t want to get up. I know I’m not good at anything. I don’t want to wake up. The world is there, but I have nothing to contribute. Just thinking about the word ‘contribute’ conjures up a sense of more effort than its worth. You wonder how fake people have to be to themselves to delude themselves into thinking that something they do will be worth anything to anyone anywhere.
The dreams I have are just that. Dreams. Nothing close to reality. Dreams I can act on — but nothing goes the way it could to fulfill said dreams. I get to be part of the majority whose dreams never come true. What comes true is the build up. Everything becoming a sign that says that maybe you’re next in line for this great, this awesome thing that makes dreams come true. But when it comes down to it, it’s just another discarded thought. It’s just something for lucky people. Luck that I don’t have.
Even hoping for normality, everything falls short. No one ever knows what normal is anymore. There are medicated highs. There are chemically induced lows. Happy for one isn’t happy for another. Normal is what everyone thinks you should be when you’re not. You’re just a really good actor.
It’s at the point where I’m more comfortable — if I can ever be comfortable again — sitting at my desk, in the dark — fingers tapping the keys, from memory. Translating the same tired words to the same tired beat. It’s better there than around someone who loves me. Might not believe me when I say I don’t do happy. At this point, neutral could pass for happy. Whatever that is.
I should feel awful … because that’s what books and movies and TV shows tell you to feel when you’re like this … I should feel one way or another in reaction to what I am. But I don’t. This feels normal. This feels right. This feels familiar. This feels like something I’ve dealt with before. I’d rather be comfortable in familiar pain… or numbness. I’d rather be in something I know, rather than the new, the exciting, the different. The good. Because that’s what people say is good.
I’ve never done this before. Sometimes I feel… or I felt… I know I’m not right … not right now. So I’m talking from a different plane. I’ve never done this before. I feel comfortable around him. But now. It’s like a something with big teeth biting me in the ass, dragging me back down to its dark clammy lair saying this is my home. This is what I have to come back to in order to keep being me.
I don’t want to lose me.
I don’t want to lose him.
But I don’t want him to know the real me. And yet, I’m posting this. I’m trying to protect him from me. Maybe that something with big teeth is just me.
Because letting him know is just making me vulnerable. Which is not me.