Heimweh

Photo: Helena Wood

In this photo, I feel at home. In the fog, I feel at home.

It occurs to me now that middle of last week I wrote – what I then considered a journal entry on ruled line paper – a sort of … goodbye letter. I can’t really stand the thought of typing the word.

But I feel that way again today. And nothing I do can seem to lift ‘the fog.’

This isn’t some sort of existential crisis or conclusion about the inconsequentiality of life. It’s less than that. Maybe more than that?

It’s this nagging feeling that I just don’t want to be here anymore. And all the earth is beautiful and lush and so worth experiencing. There are so many amazing things to learn, to read, to see, breathe and live. But those things exist outside of my existence. Those beautiful things I cannot absorb into my being and as a result, I am forever unhappy. My own existence is not one of those beautiful things that exist on this earth and so it does not belong in it either.

I just don’t want to be here anymore.

Image Credits: COUSIN

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The Way Back Machine.

It’s very interesting to me how despite the passage of time, despite emotional growth… I am still of the same feelings. Cut from the same cloth so to speak. My feelings seem to follow a very clear path straight to destruction regardless of the true state of things in my life. This is my baseline. There are ups and most assuredly there are downs but I coolly return to this neutral low state of being.

I re-read things. And all those things seem equally true in the present though they were written in the past.

Just a curation, from the Summer of 2005. I really remember that summer as very distinctly BLUE. So very blue. From blue restaurant walls to blue skies peering into my small, dark room. The blue glow of my computer screen late into the night and early into the morning. I wrote and read and bled a lot that summer. Blue and red. ‘A portrait bruise just like you. And now you’re walking away.’ ♫ Strange, though, that I miss that summer very much. It’s such a concrete memory so well-documented that I am more able to remember it ‘fondly’ despite how depressing those days were for me.

I feel so utterly hopelessly confused. Looking back, I don’t know whether to regret the year or be grateful for the experiences it brought me. It all always falls apart in the end does it not? I thought it’d hurt more, but that’s probably only because I’ve felt more hurt than this before. Pain knows no boundaries.

Everyone cheered me on and led me to believe that it was alright. But deep inside I knew the truth. The feeling was less; the idea of it felt better than it truly did. I fooled myself good.

There is another world altogether underneath my exterior. I live a private world of pain and sadness. I try not to let it affect me, but it shows. Oh, how it shows. In every smile I give, I can feel myself crumbling; I’m falling—I’m falling. I want to close my eyes, and pull the covers over my face for good measure, and cry myself to sleep—all without anyone knowing. I want to stay all alone; no, wait, I am all alone. And yet I’m still not content. I want someone to understand but am so afraid of meeting someone that does. Why, if they understand they’re no better off than I am! So tell me, what do I need?

It’s all over. I feel as though I missed something. Did I? I was unimportant wasn’t I? I was never given a second thought. “Why does it always have to be about you?” he asked me one time. Well, isn’t it always my fault?! I provide for needless complications. In my heart of hearts I know it to be true. I find solace in expressing my worries and troubles. I believe I only did it with you anyhow. Everyone else yearns to express themselves equally, if not more so than I, but not you. People talk on and on about themselves. What right have I to talk about myself when they’re so wrapped up in their tales? But with you it was different; maybe I only made it so because you never cared, but I made myself believe that it was different. I fooled myself completely. Don’t you dare tell me I get depressed when I go on about how you don’t care — you don’t.

Thinking is bad. Feeling is even worse. Emotions are for the weak. I’m awfully weak, and I hate myself. Don’t you hate me, too?

You’re surrounded by people when the overwhelming feeling of tears borders your soul; or yet, even worse, when you are all alone–rejoicing at the fact and somehow pitying yourself from it all the same–and your tears may cascade as well as from any waterfall, but you are incapable of dropping a single solitary tear or cry. The sentiment lingers, but nothing to show for it.

Feeling as though no one could truly understand my situation–or my train of thought, least of all–I did not wish to pursue a conversation with someone that would feel even the slightest bit as I did.

Why must we speak to anyone at all? Can I not just sleep my life away?

My mind is undecided: one moment I think it best to live happily and make friends and keep up my relations while another moment I think it wise to stay alone forever; which is best? I’m trying to let you know that I’m better off on my own. Still I am hesitant to be alone; it is what I fear the most. But all the people I care to keep on calling on have long gone and perhaps I only considered them important in my past. It may be that I once held people at a higher esteem and my memory recalls them as important. With a clear head, though, I can come to the realization that they are most likely no different than the people in my life now. Whatever happened to them, and what of them, and them? Do they ever think of me and what has become of me? Most likely not; the more likely they are content with their lives and going on day by day, leaving the people they once knew behind.

I have not yet forgotten a face. Everyone is important. Consider everyone valuable. I’ve learned that although at first glance one may not seem to strike a match with someone, you might become closer to them than anyone else.

The more I progress through life the less able I am to produce any new thoughts or words based on my feelings/experiences. All the words have already been produced. All the feelings have already been explained. The physical state of things may be different but the way I will feel about them has already occurred in the past. I’m not sure I’ve felt anything new in quite some time.

The pleasure I will feel tomorrow is exactly the same as the pleasure I felt yesterday. My dopamine levels will spike in just the same pattern as before to any new or familiar pleasurable experiences. My brain is unable to produce any more new feelings. So I seek new experiences (sometimes even poorly executed experiences) just in search of new feelings. But I’m not that sure I am mentally capable of producing any more new chemical reactions in my brain to my physical experiences.

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Straight Facts (An Explanation)

I’ve committed multiple acts of betrayal as of late.

I’m just so confused why nothing ever suffices. What am I waiting for to make me happy? Do I even enjoy the moments in which I am happy? Sometimes it feels like I’m just waiting for the moment in which I am miserable again. But then once I’m here everything hurts.

At this point what I wish most is to go back to a different time. But then I sat here and wondered “which time?” All of my time has been filled with such a mixture of both joy and pain that I cannot possibly justify going back to re-experience any of that pain even for a glimmer of that familiar happiness I so crave. Present happiness never suffices. Only past happiness. And future happiness is so uncertain that I immediately disregard it as unreal, impossible.

The only time period that ever seemed perfect was 9th grade. I’ve said that for YEARS AND YEARS. But really there wasn’t much happening extraordinarily back then, but at the same time… nothing bad occurred either. But it was the year before a lot of pain.

I remember 10th grade in blood and tears and pain.

I just looked down and realized I was holding in tears. So I’m crying now.

11th grade was nice. That was the year I moved out of my mom’s house. The year I got really close to Eric H. I think. In 11th grade I may have still been pining for Eric L. Wow… that is just forever ago. Almost laughable. And as soon as I had what I wanted, I no longer wanted it. This may have bled into 12th grade as well.

12th grade was hell. More blood, tears, bruises, etc.

College. I started talking to Matthew before I even started college. Summer just before. My heart just drops. If there’s one thing I wish I could undo it would be this. But the connection was instant. Oh god. But if he and I had just never spoken, I wouldn’t have ever become friends with Steven either.

Fact: I really missed Steven on Sunday. So much so I started crying. But to cry for someone that treated me so poorly is just unacceptable.

Fact: I try very hard to please.

Fact: The people I try to please are 1. not deserving 2. impossible to please 3. people I surround myself with 4. people I am more than happy to make happy. Until finally I am discarded, no longer useful, no longer needed.

Fact: I feel as though I cannot ever make anyone happy because I keep failing no matter how much I try, no matter how much I do, how much I love. It’s not ever enough. My love becomes a basis for rejection. And yet these people constantly ask and ask and ask for more and more love. So much love that I feel as though I will burst with how much love I feel and how little I get in return. Though one of my favorite quotes explains it best.

I have this dream. In this dream there is a man. And though this man is rich, successful, famous, he is unhappy, so very unhappy. He is unhappy because the love around him, the love in the hearts of those he cared for most, was beginning to shrivel and wither away. And this, in turn, made his own heart begin to grow in order to make up for the love that was disappearing around him. And the more the love in the hearts of those around him shriveled up, the bigger his own heart grew in order to make up for the growing emptiness that he now began to feel. So the love kept withering away and his heart kept growing bigger. Until one day there was so little love around him and his own heart so big—it burst into a thousand red petals that filled the sky and fell slowly, so very slowly, to the earth. And the people, his friends, the ones who had withheld their love, began to swallow the petals, these remains of the man’s glorious heart as they fell from the sky. Hungrily, they fed. Greedily, they swallowed. They pushed and shoved each other, gorging themselves on these petals because they felt that then they too would become like the man. Rich, famous, beautiful, lonely …

I can only stay strong so much longer without reciprocation.

There were more facts I wanted to talk about. But time isn’t on my side as per usual.

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Face is light and cocaine white.

First step: self-awareness. HELLO. There’s a problem. HELLO. I’ve had a problem.

My guess is this whole hypomanic episode began sometime in late November when my mood started to shift from radiant and happy to irritated. It’s actually around the time I started making horrible decisions. Careless inattention to the future effects of my actions.

I’m going to fucking null and void everything from late November to now.

I’ve also been saying for months, “No more alcohol” and I have yet to succeed… whereas in 2011 I stopped drinking for about 8-9 months without a single problem. This inability to control my willpower is unlike me. My willpower is my strength. I can challenge myself to ANYTHING and I can follow through. But I’ve been setting a goal for myself for months and somehow… just not really going through with it, at all. So something within me shifted.

I haven’t been in complete control of my decision-making.

I know better. And I know that I know better.

Letting myself fall to the influence of others is also unlike me.

GOAL: be more conscious of whatthefuck you’re doing before acting.

Specifics are incredibly hard to reveal to myself right now. But I literally PUT MYSELF IN A DANGEROUS SITUATION without thinking it through. And the consequences ARE/COULD BE/MIGHT HAVE BEEN bad. Like really bad. And in the moment I just didn’t even give a fuck.

I’ve also said some really stupid shit as of late. REALLY STUPID. Things I can’t possibly mean. Things I know I don’t mean. But in my hypomanic state, they seem real. Seemed real? It’s hard to know if I’m still in the aforementioned state.

Fucking christ, though. I honestly cannot believe the stupid shit I’ve done recently. Nowhere in my mind do my recent actions fit in with the person that I am.

What I really need right now is a friend. Not lovers. Friends. I don’t know when my needs changed. In fact… they shouldn’t change. I always and forever need support, stability, and good friends. Lovers don’t give you anything – they just take, take, take – until you’re left shattered in pieces trying to figure out where it all went wrong and why you’re left feeling so broken and incomplete.

Love will never be in my future. So I don’t know why, for a minute, I expected it. Want nothing. Expect nothing. Depend on nothing.

Maybe I just got confused by the sudden surge of people in my life, by the sudden confidence falsely created by my hypomanic episode.

I’m still learning. I’m still learning. Lesson learned.

Loneliness is the worst emotion and perhaps my most frequent as well.

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