This was written over the course of a week. Started in the midst of a 24 hour anxiety attack, pushed as much as I could, tacked on more after it was over, and finished only now because I tend to ignore things if they feels difficult. Almost like it will go away if I don’t give it power. Ever learning that emotions are incapable of being reasoned with. I usually try and make it a habit to have my “Pwning Life” posts be about achievements in life through thinking or better yet, action, rather than what about my life sucks and is continuing to suck and will suck forevermore. But there is nothing happening in my life that is awesome right now. I’m fairly miserable and can’t see this ever changing because I don’t know how to change it, let alone what exactly is wrong with me to begin with. Though I suppose accepting defeat from an insurmountable mountain of ones personal issues is an achievement in of itself?
Simply put, I can’t take this shit anymore. Again. I’m really just turning the same issues over and over, making no progress, and fail at judging said road to progress because I think everything I do is a failure, especially the wins. I don’t know what I’m doing, and my anxiety continues to get worse. I’m tired of feeling this way, and not having to live is looking a lot better than having to live through the motions to when/if I finally get better. I can’t even do the things I enjoy anymore, which includes my current employment, something that used to be a beacon of hope to me. I said to myself I would seek out help if things get out of hand, and I think that’s a sign if there ever was one.
Where that takes me from here, I got no clue. Stubborn parts of me are saying I should wait for the New Year or just next month, but living through this past week has been so exhausting. To my ever growing shame, it all came to a head during work of all places. It began well enough, sleeping over 12 hours to find I failed to wake to my alarm for work (because that’s “normal”), then enjoyed working as I usually do until round 5 PM. Then I just started freaking out, getting to the point I needed to walk outside to cool off. Came inside and felt good for two minutes, and realized I had more hours to work. I eventually left despite plenty of work to be done, because I knew I wouldn’t be able to function. Attempting to cool off and write out my feelings to make sense of things, but that failed.
That night turned into “writing” in the AM, being paralyzed like you wouldn’t believe, then thankfully sleeping a handful of hours before the next work day. And I was still freaking out. This lead to an outburst at work, which required me to carry a roll of toilet paper around if I should happen to start sobbing. This kind of life is exhausting, mentally and literally. I have no idea how or why that anxiety attack came about, or if such a day will happen to me again. This is not a life I want to live.
Having never sought help for my mental health, I really don’t understand what is out there for me. What I do know is it’s about as expensive as getting any other kind of healthcare, which is why I’ve refused to go to a doctor for several years. What, just jump onto some insurance via the Affordable Healthcare Act? Because I can totally afford such a thing! Well, I probably could when you consider the government discounts poverty brings, but the anxiety from the trouble it will be just makes me want to give up before trying. And sure I’ll likely never be able to afford the health concerns which randomly come along without insurance, but I’d rather be dead than live through such billings to begin with. Because that’s how I feel about myself, deal with it. Which puts me back in the quandary of finding help for this broken mind of mine, so there you go.
Despite all this, I’ve made emotional progress. My internal judge will at least allow me that, because there’s been no other progress that means anything in the long run. No, that’s the case, shut up. Right before I accepted my insanity near the end of September, I was burnt out and hopeless, hardly able to feel disgust at myself for making any sort of physical progress despite having even more time to get things moving. Then I broke, and was unable to feel anything via a combination of worthlessness for letting the world down and…well, not giving a shit. I’d like to say dark times were had, but those need to involve actual feeling, and I just existed. Like a chair. It doesn’t feel or move of its own volition, and just serves a function. I was incapable of doing anything other than being a chair, and likely loathed being a chair, but couldn’t muster the being to be anything but it.
And now I’m a chair that’s infuriated with how I’m built, that I don’t have certain features like wheels and the ability to change my height, that certain people do or do not sit on me, or that I’m a chair at all and better fit as firewood. The odd thing about all this is if I’m to believe the progress Hyperbole and a Half made, this is real progress. Hate is the dominant emotion before all else, and before you know it you’re laughing at funny pieces of corn under the fridge. Suppose when I finally get to the stupid commitment of cleaning the fridge before the end of the month (ha ha), I’ll be all better. Yep. Just perfect.
So in summary, I still suck and surrendered a little more. For progress. Apparently. So let’s end this on something that has made me happy as of late. Here’s a little something called Star Drunk, a sci-fi short that was written drunk and presented with drunk actors. It’s ridiculous and fun, and I yearn to do such things as this. The ridiculous and fun bit, not necessarily the drinking. It helps with the anxiety though. Sometimes.