I resent the need for community the suffocation that settles over the soul after prolonged periods of being utterly alone I'm not presumptuous enough to suppose that other people could ever value me I wouldn't ask for what I don't deserve The human condition is being put in the position to require some amount of social support that I am unwillingly compelled to pursue I won't pray for things I haven't earned, that I am unfit for all I ask is to be spared the pain of possessing a basic need that always aches, but cannot be fulfilled Please let the empty spaces satiate fill me up with the silence beneath everything make this loneliness enough for me
Can a broken brain really fix itself? maybe it requires a lot of help but how can you seek out something you're already certain you don't deserve? I've tried relentlessly to turn the tides of my mind toward the sun but the familiar shore of rage and despair is magnetic as it resists every effort It's gotten no easier to resist this automatic under toe of self-defeating thoughts when it pulls my head below the waves so swiftly and with such strength Self-love practices that once felt like salvation have turned sour under the miasma of this mind shame and disappointment have piled onto the frustration of not being able to be different I had really hoped that it was a choice that I could decide to feel better but now I doubt that it's fully true there are more factors to change than sheer will It feels like an attack to keep hearing it's up to me when I've been trying my very best but it's still not enough to get by I guess I should be glad it worked for a little while
I'm tired in a way I can't put into words the liquid soul I once housed with pride has slowly dripped away, now I'm bone dry Even the effort of asking myself what I want is more than I can manage anymore all I want is to want nothing This spiritual fatigue leads me to what is easy the path of least resistance is what I always pick regardless of the potential for happiness It just feels unlikely I'll ever uncover the strength to lift my head back up to face the world as I did and self-pity has become so sour on my tongue I want to be an artist and add my own beauty to life but my intentions get twisted and misconstrued distracted by the imagined gaze of unknown eyes So ashamed at the presumption of being worthy tearing myself to shreds to demonstrate to the world how aware I am that I'm not enough How can you ask for help when you don't feel you deserve it? how can you change direction when you're too tired to keep walking?
This ever-present emptiness aches as it echoes quick, shallow breaths catch on inner absence Wanting to wrap the words of others around my wounds in place of proper dressing no sentiments offered are ever satisfactory to sterilize this self-induced infection The inflamed ego agony of not enough cannot be extinguished by anyone else decades dedicated to feeding the flames leaves little room for course correction A wall of fire rising so high sometimes it feels like all that is left is to be asphyxiated by the smoke and silently submit to the blaze
The fear of not being worthy of what my torn and bleeding heart so longed to do was the most frightening fear of all.David Copperfield – Charles Dickens
Mental healthy is a slippery thing. One day I’ll feel like I’m doing great things, living a beautiful life, surrounded by love and opportunity. Then next I’m silently screaming in the shower as my body crumples convulsively in on itself in an attempt to disappear. The thought that grips me most violently in these moments is that I am alone. I am so alone. I’ve always been alone. I will always be alone.
My mind scrambles searching for the people that I love. Where are they? Where have they gone? They dissolve into floating masks, colorful fictions. A door slams in the face of my heart. It feels like these people never knew me, don’t like me, don’t care for me at all. Worst of all, I can’t convince myself that this is not true. Even on my good days this feeling is there, I just don’t look at it closely so it doesn’t hurt as much.
Depression and anxiety play tricks on you. Tag teaming tormentors of the soul. They twist and contort the world around you until it becomes unbearable and grotesque. They block out the light and tell you you’ve always been in darkness. Pinholes poked through a shrouded sky reveal only the most painful parts of your reality. Suffocating. All consuming. Looming large on a jet black horizon that seems to be closing in faster and faster.
When I find myself in this desperate state, my already poor social ability breaks down even further. A drowning man violently grasping and grabbing, trying to pull everyone around down with them in a blind attempt at salvation. When my clawing hand is pushed away, it is a confirmation that I’m not worthy of the oxygen I need. The world becomes a funhouse mirror. I can’t bear to look.
I’ve often heard people saying “it’s not you, it’s me” is just a line, a cop out. That no one really means this when they break up with someone. I’ve never felt so sure of that. I’ve felt the truth of these words in my own throat. It is because I love the people in my life that I feel compelled to sever all ties with them. I am nothing but a burden, a leaden weight pulling them underwater with me. I’m a chore, an annoyance, something they would be happier and better off without. When someone ends their own life, everyone gasps, “How could they do that to their family?” Not realizing they probably did it for their family.
I’ve felt unworthy since the moment I conceptualized that was something one could feel. I’m sure other people feel this way, but I wonder if they feel it in the same sense that I do. I wonder if they hold it up to the light of justice and feel these pangs with that additional intensity. The added weight of taking what is not yours, of doing something vile and criminal, something sickeningly selfish.
All the bonds in my life feel tinged with injustice. I don’t deserve to be loved. I couldn’t possibly be loved. I am doing a disservice to everyone I meet by allowing them to pretend for the sake of my own neediness, to dissuade my heavy sense of self pity. The melodrama is thick, but it’s genuine. This is how I feel. When I push someone away, there is never even a moment’s consideration of whether that has hurt them, whether they are sad, whether they might miss me or want me in their life. These questions seem ridiculous to me. I’m clearly not worthy of remembrance or tenderness. You don’t miss a rock that has finally tumbled out of your shoe when you shake it.
When I begin to feel better, when my agitated state of mind starts to settle, I still don’t believe these things to be any less true. I never feel worthy of love. I just feel less guilty about receiving it. I never lose that sense of being utterly alone. Being alone just doesn’t seem to hurt as badly. I’m left with only a sense of embarrassment and shame for showing the world my suffering. For being selfish and conceited enough to think that anyone else should or would care, for bothering everyone by asking them to, for being so ungrateful when I already have so much more than I’ve ever deserved.
I’m just left wondering: How can you move forward, how can you be happy, find love, love yourself, when you feel so certain that you are unworthy of all of it? When you feel guilty for even wanting to?
For months now every time I sit down to write, I am overcome with a deep piercing pang of unworthiness. I heard someone say the other day that creating starts with believing that you have something worth sharing. This struck a chord within me. Maybe once I felt I had valuable input, interesting concepts to put forth into the world, but now? Now I feel empty. The longer I spend trying to come up with an idea, the worse I feel about myself as a writer, as a person.
Again and again this idea has been reinforced. I have nothing worth sharing. I’m embarrassed by the assumption that I might. I feel ashamed of the blank page in front of me, reminding me that I’m not enough. That blinking black line on an ocean of white is agonizing. What could be more painful than plumbing the depths of your soul and finding nothing?
This intense internal pressure never reaches a breaking point. There is no release from this ever tightening grip of anguish. Why does this vague desire to pour out my soul in colorful, living form not subside? When I try to pin down the essence of that longed for expression, there is nothing but smoke and shadow. There is nothing but a looming sense of emptiness, dusty bare walls of an empty room.
Let the tide swallow me whole, like morning light through windows. Let that dark water take me home.Where We Went Wrong – The Hush Sound
The sun slowly rises dispelling the peaceful blackness of night. The stillness, the contentment of mind that lingers on the edge just before consciousness fully reemerges, is stolen in an instant. It is replaced by the heavy weight of memory. It is replaced by the knowledge of the day that came before and the pain that has waited for us patiently throughout the night. It slips back in under half-opened eyelids. It stings like the prickling of so many tears. It throbs in synchronization with the dull ache in my head.
Glancing out into the dawn, snow falls in heavy clumps, coating the earth in a sheet of white. Frail flowers that sprouted too soon suffocate under it’s weight. A few days ago spring had arrived. Now even the weather emphasizes the shift in my personal reality. Winter is not yet over. Tender hopes smothered in harsh contrast with new sorrow, like the creaking skeletal trees against the pure white backdrop.
There is a sharpness of focus that comes with suffering. Pain paints the world in vivid color. Each moment feels crisp and inescapable. There is a sense of complete surrender in despair. Sometimes it feels good to lie down under the wheels of life and let it pass over you without resistance. To accept that there is no escape from the bitter taste of mourning. To submit to the violent pangs of unavoidable loss.
Sorrow seems like a homecoming. Drifting back down to the place where I belong. There is a sense of peace, a strange comfort in that belonging. There is justice in this pain, because I deserve it. It seems my soul is only suited for suffering. Happiness and love are substances that were never mine to hold. They are too slippery in my clumsy fingers. The struggle to hold onto them is a cruelty I can only subject myself to for so long. Now I can finally rest again. I have finally come home to the stillness, to the hollow space at the bottom of everything.