Here's a list of reasons I'm sick of being alive. I give you this list for no reason, other than the darkness of which I am the heart.
My feet and my knees hurt. All the time.
I have no car.
My ex-wife wants $1500 from me, and I have no idea how I'm going to get it.
My allergies are killing me.
I hate spring.
I have a loser job.
Apparently, I subconsciously want my loser job.
I try, but I can't stop being a selfish jerk.
Someday soon, my daughter will figure out what a chump I am.
I can't sleep well. I haven't slept well for months.
I'm tired all the time.
I know I should shut up and quit whining, but I'm addicted to whining.
I'm a coward.
I'm afraid of failure, but I'm terrified of success.
Most of my old high school friends are married. Nobody but me is divorced.
I know it's stating the obvious, given the content of this blog, but I'm a very bad writer.
I'm getting old, and aging sucks.
My other blogs suck worse than this one.
I don't have enough money.
I'm angry about a lot of things, and there's not a goddamned thing I can do about any of them.
I hate my medication, but I can't stop taking it because I can't sleep without it.
The rest of my life is going to be like this, only with steadily deteriorating physical health.
I'm sick of thinking up lists like this all the time.
What a blog I have! I suck out loud. I leave you with a bit of Shakespeare's MacBeth.
"Out, out, brief candle! Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Women Make Me Hate Myself
"I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes. I have to turn my head until my darkness goes."
- The Rolling Stones, "Paint It Black"
I was in the grocery store today, and I saw Amber again. She is an achingly beautiful young woman - about 20 or so - who is a cashier at the store I usually shop at. She's friendly, too, and sometimes I can make her laugh. I want her so bad that the desire just crushes my heart and rends my soul open like a meat cleaver.
Of course, she's not the only young woman I want. There are several different places I frequent - the LCBO, the Beer Store - and there are other equally attractive young women that fill me with aching desire and painful, unfulfilled lust. When I see women like Amber, I go off the rails and into the Canyon of Depression.
On the surface, the pain is just the pain of wanting what I cannot have. I feel that pain as soon as I set eyes on Amber (or any other unattainable woman, of which there are plenty). But the real pain begins later, when I realize that I don't even desire their companionship or a relationship or what's in their heads or their hearts. I just want their bodies. I just want to fuck them, and that makes me hate myself.
I hate myself for being so shallow, for lusting pointlessly after women I cannot have, for thinking about sex every waking hour, but most of all, for believing the illusion that having one of those pretty young things will make me happy. Sex cannot make me happy for more than an hour or two. Yet I want it, and nothing more. I am a monster, a fiend in the night, and I despise myself.
I know how vampires feel about mirrors. They avoid mirrors because they can't stand to look at what they'll see in the glass. Neither can I.
- The Rolling Stones, "Paint It Black"
I was in the grocery store today, and I saw Amber again. She is an achingly beautiful young woman - about 20 or so - who is a cashier at the store I usually shop at. She's friendly, too, and sometimes I can make her laugh. I want her so bad that the desire just crushes my heart and rends my soul open like a meat cleaver.
Of course, she's not the only young woman I want. There are several different places I frequent - the LCBO, the Beer Store - and there are other equally attractive young women that fill me with aching desire and painful, unfulfilled lust. When I see women like Amber, I go off the rails and into the Canyon of Depression.
On the surface, the pain is just the pain of wanting what I cannot have. I feel that pain as soon as I set eyes on Amber (or any other unattainable woman, of which there are plenty). But the real pain begins later, when I realize that I don't even desire their companionship or a relationship or what's in their heads or their hearts. I just want their bodies. I just want to fuck them, and that makes me hate myself.
I hate myself for being so shallow, for lusting pointlessly after women I cannot have, for thinking about sex every waking hour, but most of all, for believing the illusion that having one of those pretty young things will make me happy. Sex cannot make me happy for more than an hour or two. Yet I want it, and nothing more. I am a monster, a fiend in the night, and I despise myself.
I know how vampires feel about mirrors. They avoid mirrors because they can't stand to look at what they'll see in the glass. Neither can I.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Living In The Past
"Now my memories they haunt me, they haunt me like a curse. Is a dream a lie that don't come true, or is it something worse?"
- Bruce Springsteen, "The River".
I spend a lot of time in the past. I think about the good times, I think about the bad times, and I think about all of the mistakes I made, the opportunities missed, the roads not taken. Most of all, I think about how the best years of my life are behind me. I think about the past a lot, because it beats thinking about the present or the future. My present sucks, and my future is as dark as a moonless night.
I tried to tell my daughter today about the importance of enjoying her life right now. She's nine, and nine is a perfect age. I remember being nine. The time when I was nine, ten and eleven were great years. I was old enough to have some independence - summer days spent out in parks with friends, away from grownups - but young enough that I was still free of big worries. My daughter is at that age now, before puberty and high school and all the angst, insecurity, anger and hopelessness that comes with being a teenager. I wanted to tell her how much I cherish the memories of being her age, but it backfired, and I came across as a man who was sad, sad that a great time in my life was gone.
She's smart. She sees through what I'm saying to the feelings beneath. I tried to tell her a few months ago that I had no hard feelings about divorcing her mother, and how sometimes things don't work out between people, and how sometimes it's for the best. She saw through my words and saw what I was trying to hide - a man who is depressed because all of his relationships fail and he's alone. She cried, because she hates to see me sad. I wish I could explain to her that I'm always sad, but there's no point.
I look back into the past, because it's all I have. From age 9 to 11, I was happy, and I took those endless summers with my friends for granted, summers that seemed eternal, when school was a thousand Augusts away. It all went off the rails in junior high. In grade 8, when I was 13, I attempted suicide for the first time. Suicide dominated my thoughts all through high school. College was great, and I was happy for two years. I had forgotten what being happy was like, and it was wonderful and intoxicating. I had lots of fun, I made new friends, I had my first girlfriend; college life was great. I wish I could have those two years back. I wish I could live them out again. Such days will never come again, at least not for me, so I think back to the past. It's all I have.
It's better to live in the present, to hold on to the few moments of joy that do come my way. And there are a few. But mostly, it's cold and miserable and dark in my life, with almost no prospects for improvement in the future. So I go through my favorite memories, holding them up to my mind's eye like faded photographs, and try to live in the past, if only for a few moments. It's sad, and I feel bad that my daughter can see my sadness. I try so hard to hide it from her.
I am an old man in a dark attic, looking at an ancient, faded scrapbook by the feeble light of a candle. I search for comfort, but my memories haunt me, the ghosts of better times that shall not return.
- Bruce Springsteen, "The River".
I spend a lot of time in the past. I think about the good times, I think about the bad times, and I think about all of the mistakes I made, the opportunities missed, the roads not taken. Most of all, I think about how the best years of my life are behind me. I think about the past a lot, because it beats thinking about the present or the future. My present sucks, and my future is as dark as a moonless night.
I tried to tell my daughter today about the importance of enjoying her life right now. She's nine, and nine is a perfect age. I remember being nine. The time when I was nine, ten and eleven were great years. I was old enough to have some independence - summer days spent out in parks with friends, away from grownups - but young enough that I was still free of big worries. My daughter is at that age now, before puberty and high school and all the angst, insecurity, anger and hopelessness that comes with being a teenager. I wanted to tell her how much I cherish the memories of being her age, but it backfired, and I came across as a man who was sad, sad that a great time in my life was gone.
She's smart. She sees through what I'm saying to the feelings beneath. I tried to tell her a few months ago that I had no hard feelings about divorcing her mother, and how sometimes things don't work out between people, and how sometimes it's for the best. She saw through my words and saw what I was trying to hide - a man who is depressed because all of his relationships fail and he's alone. She cried, because she hates to see me sad. I wish I could explain to her that I'm always sad, but there's no point.
I look back into the past, because it's all I have. From age 9 to 11, I was happy, and I took those endless summers with my friends for granted, summers that seemed eternal, when school was a thousand Augusts away. It all went off the rails in junior high. In grade 8, when I was 13, I attempted suicide for the first time. Suicide dominated my thoughts all through high school. College was great, and I was happy for two years. I had forgotten what being happy was like, and it was wonderful and intoxicating. I had lots of fun, I made new friends, I had my first girlfriend; college life was great. I wish I could have those two years back. I wish I could live them out again. Such days will never come again, at least not for me, so I think back to the past. It's all I have.
It's better to live in the present, to hold on to the few moments of joy that do come my way. And there are a few. But mostly, it's cold and miserable and dark in my life, with almost no prospects for improvement in the future. So I go through my favorite memories, holding them up to my mind's eye like faded photographs, and try to live in the past, if only for a few moments. It's sad, and I feel bad that my daughter can see my sadness. I try so hard to hide it from her.
I am an old man in a dark attic, looking at an ancient, faded scrapbook by the feeble light of a candle. I search for comfort, but my memories haunt me, the ghosts of better times that shall not return.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Anger
Underneath the mostly placid, solid surface of the Earth is a great boiling, convecting expanse of magma, rock so hot that it is molten. Over the last few weeks, I have realized that I am like that. I have a dark, sad, but mostly placid exterior, but underneath the crust of despair is a red-hot, molten sea of rage.
My psychiatrist says that suicide is ultimately an act of intense rage turned inwards. Deep down, where I seldom look and dislike going, I am very angry. There is a lot of toxic, unexpressed anger, and it burns me like lava. It sears and scars my soul.
Above all, I am angry at my father, for the way he treated me and continues to treat me, for the times he hung me out to dry, but mostly for the fact that I want revenge for his wrongdoing and cannot have it.
I dislike that about myself - the desire for revenge, the desire to make him suffer - and I spend a lot of time obsessing over my despair, in part to avoid looking at my anger.
I don't know what to do about my anger. I want revenge. That seems the only thing that could satisfy it, but I'm not sure it would solve anything. I hate that, and I hate the fact that I subconsciously still allow my father to define me. Thinking about how angry I am makes me intensely depressed. I am going to go and drink now, because that's what I do.
I am reminded of the words of William Shakespeare. "If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?"
God, I hate myself right now.
My psychiatrist says that suicide is ultimately an act of intense rage turned inwards. Deep down, where I seldom look and dislike going, I am very angry. There is a lot of toxic, unexpressed anger, and it burns me like lava. It sears and scars my soul.
Above all, I am angry at my father, for the way he treated me and continues to treat me, for the times he hung me out to dry, but mostly for the fact that I want revenge for his wrongdoing and cannot have it.
I dislike that about myself - the desire for revenge, the desire to make him suffer - and I spend a lot of time obsessing over my despair, in part to avoid looking at my anger.
I don't know what to do about my anger. I want revenge. That seems the only thing that could satisfy it, but I'm not sure it would solve anything. I hate that, and I hate the fact that I subconsciously still allow my father to define me. Thinking about how angry I am makes me intensely depressed. I am going to go and drink now, because that's what I do.
I am reminded of the words of William Shakespeare. "If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?"
God, I hate myself right now.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Fear And Despair
I often feel alone. Most of my friends are married, and at gatherings of old pals and their wives, I am usually the only single person there. There are times it is difficult not to feel like a loser.
Yet I must face the fact that I am the author of my own sordid tale of misfortune, heartbreak and loneliness. I am the heart and soul of my own darkness. I am the one who keeps turning out the lights.
Opportunities for relationships happen rarely for me, but they do happen, and when they do, I either subconsciously sabotage them, or, gripped by irrational fear, deliberately bail on them. It would be convenient if I could blame fate or circumstance, but the painful truth is that deep down, I just don't want a relationship. I like the freedom that comes with being single. The truth is, I would like to have sex without everything else that comes with a relationship. I hate that about myself. I hate myself for being so shallow and selfish, for wanting physical intimacy and pleasure without emotional intimacy and everything that goes with that.
When I have no prospects for a relationship, I am filled with despair and consumed by envy, envy of those who have that special someone in their life. But when I do have a prospect, I am overwhelmed by fear, the fear of losing my freedom. It is clear that I am not cut out to be anyone's husband or boyfriend - I suck at relationships - yet I am unhappy being single. I am caught between fear and despair, and profound unhappiness is the result.
When I think about things like this, I dislike myself with alarming intensity. All I can say is that I am really, really tired of disliking myself so much.
Yet I must face the fact that I am the author of my own sordid tale of misfortune, heartbreak and loneliness. I am the heart and soul of my own darkness. I am the one who keeps turning out the lights.
Opportunities for relationships happen rarely for me, but they do happen, and when they do, I either subconsciously sabotage them, or, gripped by irrational fear, deliberately bail on them. It would be convenient if I could blame fate or circumstance, but the painful truth is that deep down, I just don't want a relationship. I like the freedom that comes with being single. The truth is, I would like to have sex without everything else that comes with a relationship. I hate that about myself. I hate myself for being so shallow and selfish, for wanting physical intimacy and pleasure without emotional intimacy and everything that goes with that.
When I have no prospects for a relationship, I am filled with despair and consumed by envy, envy of those who have that special someone in their life. But when I do have a prospect, I am overwhelmed by fear, the fear of losing my freedom. It is clear that I am not cut out to be anyone's husband or boyfriend - I suck at relationships - yet I am unhappy being single. I am caught between fear and despair, and profound unhappiness is the result.
When I think about things like this, I dislike myself with alarming intensity. All I can say is that I am really, really tired of disliking myself so much.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Quitting
I am thinking about quitting. Not life, this time, just writing. I am giving serious consideration to quitting writing for good.
Of course, if I quit writing, if I give up on that, then it begs the question, "why am I here?". If I quit even trying to write, then why not commit suicide?
I have identified myself as a writer for so long, it is difficult to imagine letting go of that. It has become part of my identity, and is not easily discarded.
Still, I have not written anything in more than a year. No, this blog doesn't count. I'm talking about creative writing. I speak of stories and poems. Anyone can write a blog. Not everyone can write a story. I used to be able to, but I am apparently empty. There seems to be nothing left in the tank, which makes the decision that much easier.
I have not decided yet, but I will decide soon. I'll let you know.
I always thought it would be better to write crap than to write nothing. I thought I would rather be a bad writer than not be a writer at all. Lately, though, I don't feel it. My heart is dark and empty, and nothing comes out of it anymore. It has become a black hole, the heart of my darkness. No light escapes. I have no inner light. There's nothing there but darkness now, and I'm tired of staring at it.
Of course, if I quit writing, if I give up on that, then it begs the question, "why am I here?". If I quit even trying to write, then why not commit suicide?
I have identified myself as a writer for so long, it is difficult to imagine letting go of that. It has become part of my identity, and is not easily discarded.
Still, I have not written anything in more than a year. No, this blog doesn't count. I'm talking about creative writing. I speak of stories and poems. Anyone can write a blog. Not everyone can write a story. I used to be able to, but I am apparently empty. There seems to be nothing left in the tank, which makes the decision that much easier.
I have not decided yet, but I will decide soon. I'll let you know.
I always thought it would be better to write crap than to write nothing. I thought I would rather be a bad writer than not be a writer at all. Lately, though, I don't feel it. My heart is dark and empty, and nothing comes out of it anymore. It has become a black hole, the heart of my darkness. No light escapes. I have no inner light. There's nothing there but darkness now, and I'm tired of staring at it.
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Fun Just Keeps On Leaving
I lost a friend this week. I had known him for over 26 years. We first met in high school, and we've been friends up until recently. There was an altercation between us over something stupid. At the time, I apologized, even though it wasn't my fault. I decided it was better to take the high road and accept responsibility for what happened, even though he started it. At the end, he said he accepted my apology, we hugged, and I thought we were cool.
I was mistaken.
He was angry enough after that evening to delete me as a friend on Facebook. This was, according to him, six months ago (though I remember him still being in my list of friends in December). Now he's not only angry about the altercation (in spite of my apology), he's angry it took me this long to notice that he had deleted me. I don't use Facebook that much, nor do I check my list of friends all the time to see if it has changed. Facebook does not notify you if someone drops you as a friend. I had a lot of other crap going on in my life, so the fact I hadn't seen him in a while wasn't uppermost in my mind. Still, I took the high road.
I apologized to him, without reservation or excuses, even though it was he who was being childish. I mean, he could have called me or e-mailed me to let me know he was still angry, and we could have tried to work things out like grownups. Instead he just avoided me like some chicken-shit kid. Still, even though I wasn't at fault, I took the high road for the sake of our friendship and apologized for the incident, for not contacting him, for not noticing he'd dropped me as a friend. Today I got a terse reply. He said "I would prefer it if we never interact again".
Just like that, 26 years of friendship gone, because he wouldn't talk to me, and was mad that I hadn't noticed that he was avoiding me. I guess we never were friends, if he can just end it that easily, over something stupid. It makes me sad.
My only consolation is that it really is his loss. I rarely say that, if ever. It's pretty clear in this blog that I don't have much respect for myself, so usually when something like this happens, I blame myself and fear that every friend will dump me because I suck. I thought about this particular friend, and realized that I'd been pretty good to him. I have driven him places (he lost his licence 20 years ago, and never got it back), including parties with other friends. I stuck up for him when some of my other friends didn't want him around. Three of my buddies' wives fucking hate his guts, and I sweet-talked them into letting him be a part of various festivities. I've stuck by him even as other people avoided him because of his alcoholism and his behaviour when drunk. I can honestly say I was a pretty good friend to him. I'm sad that he decided to end our friendship, but it's his loss. There are a lot of places he's not going to get invited to anymore.
I admit that I'm angry about why it ended, and how it ended, and his unwillingness to accept my apologies. I think it's unfair that he won't even give me a chance to make things up to him. There's a part of me that wants to kick the crap out of him if I ever see him. I probably won't - fist-fights are always counter-productive - but I'd like to. I guess it's because I feel betrayed. Plus, I've got a lot of other bad things going on, and I don't need this shit from some ungrateful bastard.
Shit like this sucks. Life fucking sucks. Days like today make me wonder why the fuck I bother.
I was mistaken.
He was angry enough after that evening to delete me as a friend on Facebook. This was, according to him, six months ago (though I remember him still being in my list of friends in December). Now he's not only angry about the altercation (in spite of my apology), he's angry it took me this long to notice that he had deleted me. I don't use Facebook that much, nor do I check my list of friends all the time to see if it has changed. Facebook does not notify you if someone drops you as a friend. I had a lot of other crap going on in my life, so the fact I hadn't seen him in a while wasn't uppermost in my mind. Still, I took the high road.
I apologized to him, without reservation or excuses, even though it was he who was being childish. I mean, he could have called me or e-mailed me to let me know he was still angry, and we could have tried to work things out like grownups. Instead he just avoided me like some chicken-shit kid. Still, even though I wasn't at fault, I took the high road for the sake of our friendship and apologized for the incident, for not contacting him, for not noticing he'd dropped me as a friend. Today I got a terse reply. He said "I would prefer it if we never interact again".
Just like that, 26 years of friendship gone, because he wouldn't talk to me, and was mad that I hadn't noticed that he was avoiding me. I guess we never were friends, if he can just end it that easily, over something stupid. It makes me sad.
My only consolation is that it really is his loss. I rarely say that, if ever. It's pretty clear in this blog that I don't have much respect for myself, so usually when something like this happens, I blame myself and fear that every friend will dump me because I suck. I thought about this particular friend, and realized that I'd been pretty good to him. I have driven him places (he lost his licence 20 years ago, and never got it back), including parties with other friends. I stuck up for him when some of my other friends didn't want him around. Three of my buddies' wives fucking hate his guts, and I sweet-talked them into letting him be a part of various festivities. I've stuck by him even as other people avoided him because of his alcoholism and his behaviour when drunk. I can honestly say I was a pretty good friend to him. I'm sad that he decided to end our friendship, but it's his loss. There are a lot of places he's not going to get invited to anymore.
I admit that I'm angry about why it ended, and how it ended, and his unwillingness to accept my apologies. I think it's unfair that he won't even give me a chance to make things up to him. There's a part of me that wants to kick the crap out of him if I ever see him. I probably won't - fist-fights are always counter-productive - but I'd like to. I guess it's because I feel betrayed. Plus, I've got a lot of other bad things going on, and I don't need this shit from some ungrateful bastard.
Shit like this sucks. Life fucking sucks. Days like today make me wonder why the fuck I bother.
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