Why The Rage?

I was talking to the guy I live with about relationships. He doesn't want to ever get married again, or even live with someone, because he thinks he'll be "trapped". He said he can name "about 50 guys" who feel trapped in a marriage that they don't want to be in, because they're afraid of the financial consequences of leaving. I tried to tell him that there are plenty of happily married people - I know at least a dozen - and if the right person comes along, you won't feel trapped, you'll feel like it's the right thing to do. He disagreed, which is fair.

But then he said that I don't know what it's like to be "trapped" in a marriage that's not working. I told him that I damned well DO know. I told him that he's not the only one who's been divorced - I have, too - and that I know how it feels to be stuck in a house with someone who doesn't love you, and how you feel there are few options. He said "you were only married for a year and a half". At that point, I lost it.

It made me really angry, and I told him that it was bullshit that just because I wasn't married for 10 years, that I don't know what it's like. I did something I've never done to him before - I threw an empty can down, I yelled at him (I told him he was full of shit, and that it was bullshit that he was discounting my experiences), and then I stormed off. I went to take a shower, and I was not surprised that I was angry - I hate it when people tell me I don't know what I'm talking about WHEN I DO - but I was shocked at how angry I was. I was enraged, and that disturbed me.

Why would I get so angry at that comment? What is this really about? I can't be THAT mad at him - it really wasn't that big a deal. So why would that set me off like that? What unresolved issues do I have that would make me react like that? It obviously pushed one of my buttons, but there must be something in my own head that would make me that angry. It's pretty clear that it's not about him or what he said, it's about what's going on in my own head. I guess what's most upsetting about the rage I felt was that I don't know why I reacted that way. I do know that it has far more to do with me than him, but I don't know what the issue is in my own head. So why the rage? Why?

I have tried to accept what is, to do the Buddhist thing and not let stupid stuff get to me, and yet I get all bent out of shape when someone tells me I don't know what I'm talking about. The whole thing disturbs me, because I thought I'd let go of a lot of my anger in the past year, and yet there is obviously still a lot of it. Why? And more importantly, why can't I let it go?

Quitting Time?

"Drove back to town this morning, with working on my mind. I thought of maybe quitting, thought of leaving it behind."

- The Tragically Hip, "Bobcaygeon"


Once again, I'm in a creative funk. Call it being out of gas, call it writer's block, but once again, I've got nothing. Apart from my ongoing financial train wreck, my life's pretty good right now. But I have been unable to write very much, and what I have written is unspeakably bad. So now, as I think about writing, I wonder, is it time to quit?

I'm not sure which is worse, being unable to write, or being unable to write anything that doesn't suck. Some days, I feel as if I was put on this Earth to write. Yet 95% of what I write is terrible. Am I supposed to just be a crappy writer? That has little appeal for me. Other days, like today, I feel like it's all a joke. I'm not a writer, I'm just some hack pretending to be one.

Man, I can't even get this blog post to make any sense.

Maybe I write for the wrong reasons. Maybe I'm just looking for approval from people. Maybe the writing isn't as important to me as the idea of "being a writer". Maybe that's just how I like to define myself, or present myself to the world. "Oooh, look at me, I'm a writer!" I don't know. Today, though, I feel like a fraud. I'm like the Wizard of Oz, an old charlatan who hides behind an illusion.

Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain! I am the great and powerful Oz!

So, should I quit writing? Is it quitting time, time to put down the pen for good? I don't know. Maybe I'll just put writing aside for a while and see how I feel later. Maybe I shouldn't decide once and for all right now. All I can say is that thinking about this makes me depressed, but that's what I do. I depress myself. I am the heart of my darkness.

"The sky was dull, and hypothetical, and falling one cloud at a time..."

Paralyzed

Fear leaks from my dark heart like thick, black poison, rendering me immobile. I am paralyzed by my fear. I am faced with several major decisions in my life right now, and I cannot decide, because I'm too afraid of making the wrong choices. As always, I hide, I avoid, and I put off deciding until I am forced to. As always, I hate myself for not having the courage to take action. Once again, I let fear chain me to the floor in a dark room, and I am the heart of that darkness. I have no-one to blame for my incarceration but me.

It's hard not to feel helpless and stupid and cowardly. It's hard not to sink into despair again. I'm trying not to let the darkness of my heart consume my life once again, but I feel paralyzed by fear and despair. I know I could improve things if I could just take action, but what to do? Which path to take? And what if it's the wrong one?

I am lost in a forest at night. I'm too scared to try to find my way out, for fear of going down the wrong path, so I stand still, alone in the darkness, paralyzed.

Father's Day, Indecision, And The Curse Of Hope

I wanted to write some stuff on Father's Day, but life intervened. I know it's a few days later, but it's not too late to say that I hate Father's Day.

I've never gotten along with my dad, but the last few years have been worse than usual, and I've had enough of him. People asked me what I planned to do for him on the big day, and most were surprised and dismayed when I replied, "nothing". I have better things to do with my time than interact with my dad, so I didn't even call him. That's not what makes me depressed. What saddens me is the people I know who get along with their fathers. I get jealous and depressed when friends talk about spending time with their dads. I wonder what it's like to have a dad who isn't selfish, verbally abusive and actually wants to be around his offspring.

I also feel uncomfortable on Father's Day, getting a gift and a card from my daughter. She made a really nice card this year, made out to "the world's greatest dad". I am not comfortable with that description. I know, I know, I'm the best in her eyes, but I cannot help but feel that I am unworthy of such praise. She's a smart girl, and one of these days, she's going to figure out that I am not really the greatest. It saddens me. I do the best I can, but I worry, constantly, that it's not good enough.

My indecision depresses me, too. When faced with a choice or an opportunity, I rarely make up my mind until I am forced to. I have an opportunity to purchase one of three different crappy used cars, and I've spent weeks humming and hawing and consulting friends, and I still cannot make up my mind. It's fear, of course. I'm always afraid that whatever decision I make will be the wrong one. That applies to every decision I make, whether it be about jobs, relationships, or even something simple like shopping for clothes (which I hate). In this case, I do have a good reason to be hesitant - the last three choices I made concerning cars were all bad ones. One car was a money pit, and the other two had their engines blow up. So I worry that whatever car I end up buying will explode, spewing fluids all over the road. But my inability to decide depresses me.

I wish I could be more cynical. I wish that I were truly without hope, that I could simply accept that nothing I do will turn out right. But faced with unexpected opportunities, I find myself full of hope that maybe this time, things will turn out right. Sometimes they do, but usually, they don't, and I end up hating myself for getting my hopes up again, only to see them dashed. Sometimes, I think hope is a curse.

Of course, I have been truly hopeless before, and it led to crushing despair and thoughts of suicide. I don't want to go down that road again, so it's possible hope is not a bad thing. I struggle to do the Zen thing and accept things as they are, but it's hard, struggling against my dark, dark heart. It's hard.

Idiocy

Sunday I took my daughter down to Spencer Smith Park in Burlington. It's a nice park by the lake. It should be nice, after all the money Burlington spent on it. We were down at the tiny beach area, and Hannah was running back and forth, laughing and dodging the incoming waves. It was a beautiful moment.

Not far away, two women were on the beach while their toddler played at the edge of the water. The girl looked about 18 months old, maybe 2 years. She wandered over to a point where she was closer to me than to the two women (I assumed one of them was her mother). I was mostly watching my daughter, but this small girl was in my peripheral vision most of the time.

The girl tripped and fell into the water face first. The waves were not big, but they were big enough that she couldn't stand back up. She was only face-down in the water and struggling for a few moments before her mother ran over and fished her out. The little girl was fine. She coughed a bit, but hadn't seemed to inhale any water. She was a little scared, but minutes later, she was playing and laughing again. It was a scary moment, but it ended well.

Why am I telling you this? Because I saw it all happen, and STOOD THERE LIKE AN IDIOT! I could have jumped in and picked the girl up myself - I was no more than six feet from her, and closer than her mother was. Instead, like a fucking stunned monkey, I just stood there and watched. I DON'T KNOW WHY! One would think I would have acted when someone's kid fell in the fucking lake, but no. I just stood there, and I assume I had a dopey, semi-retarded look on my face.

What's the point of this humiliating story? I hate myself, that's the point. I had a chance to jump in and help someone, and instead, I just stood there. Since then, all I can think about is what happened, and how, if the two women hadn't been paying attention, something horrible might have happened right in front of me.

This is apparently what I do. Opportunities come by, and I just stand there while someone else acts. Opportunities to meet women, to get a different job, to get a car, to do things, come along, and I just let them pass by, and spend days or weeks regretting my inaction. Life passes me by while I just STAND AROUND AND WATCH IT FUCKING HAPPEN! God forbid I should ever come across someone seriously injured or trapped in a burning car! I'll probably stare at them stupidly while they bleed or burn to death!

Life is full of opportunities, and I sit in a dark room with the curtains drawn, staring into the abyss that is my blackened soul. Hell is a life not lived.

Is It The Medication?

I wonder if the antidepressant I am on has strangled my creativity and disposed of the corpse. I know that one side effect of my medication is lethargy. I am well aware of the lack of physical energy I have dealt with since I started taking this drug, but I only thought about the mental aspect today. Perhaps my sluggishness has extended to my brain.

That is very depressing, if it's true. Depressing, because I can't stop taking the drug. I tried once - I went four months without it - and could not sleep. I was hoping that the sleeplessness was merely a withdrawal symptom, and after a month or two, my sleep would return to normal. No such fucking luck. Four and a half months after going off my antidepressant, I had to go back on it, not because I was depressed (my life was going OK at that point), but because I could only sleep when I was completely exhausted, and even then only for a few hours. So unfortunately, quitting the medication is not an option.

I guess that means my ability to write is gone for good. How very sad. I wasn't good at it, though I had my moments of brilliance, but at least I could do it. Now I've got nothing, and I seriously think it may be the drug that's doing it to me.

I feel dead inside, dark and hollow and empty. If I am dead inside, if my ability to write is gone, then why should I bother with being alive? If I'm not here to write, then why am I here at all? And no, this blog doesn't count as writing, because it is not fiction. It is all too true. How sad. How very sad.

I'm Sick Of Being Alive

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

No Value

My life apparently has value to other people. I am valued as an employee at work - my boss has given me good performance reviews and has stated more than once that things go more smoothly when I'm around. Some of my family members love me and enjoy my company. My friends like to have me around. When I spoke to one friend about how much worse my depression is these days, he said he would enjoy the world much more with me in it, than with me not in it. I can name many people who feel much the same way.

Oddly, though, my life has no value to me. It struck me as funny, in a sad way, that others enjoy my company, but I do not. I dislike myself, with ever-increasing intensity. I used to hide behind excuses for my miserable situation. After all, it's easier to deal with a world that's out to hurt me than it is to deal with the more painful truth that I'm the problem. An old Russian proverb says "It would be convenient for most people if God were a rascal". But if I'm honest with myself, and I strip away the illusions of Cruel Fate and an uncaring, or even malicious God, I see that the problem is me. I am the heart of my problems, the very black hole I seek to escape in vain. I am not lost in darkness, I am the darkness, and in the end, it is I who turned out the lights. That's why I hate myself, and that's why my life has no value to me. Other people may want me to live, but I don't, because I cannot stand the thought of thirty or forty more years of this self-inflicted misery.

My life has value to a lot of people, but sadly, I am not one of them.

On The Brink

When an exceptionally massive star burns the last of its nuclear fuel, and there is no longer enough energy to offset its enormous mass, it collapses under the weight of its own gravity. Unlike smaller stars, which simply shrink in size (but not mass) and burn out, or big stars that explode, unusually huge stars have so much mass that they collapse into a black hole, an object with such massive gravitational force that nothing can escape their gravitational pull, not even light.

Something similar is happening to me. I have run out of energy, both physically and spiritually, and now I am collapsing into a black hole of hopeless despair so deep and dark that there is no escape. I can feel myself teetering on the brink of oblivion. I despise myself so much that I can no longer see any option other than death. I no longer have the energy to continue fighting to live in my self-contained, self-made darkness. I can't stand being the heart of darkness anymore, but I cannot escape the immense gravity of my despair and self-loathing. I feel as if I am being compressed, squeezed, crushed, and the only escape from being who I am is death.

I wish I was dead, but wishing won't make it so. Unless something drastic happens, I may have to end this life. I don't want to. I don't want to hurt all the people that care about me. But I can't go on like this anymore. I'm burned out, and I just want this to end.

I wish there were another way.

Goodbye, 2008, And Good Riddance

I know that the division of time into calendar years is arbitrary, and that Day One of one year is really no different than Day 365 of the previous one. Still, even if the day the year changes is arbitrary, it does represent another trip around the sun. With that in mind, I bid farewell to 2008, a bad year by any measure.

It wasn't all bad, of course. Even the worst life has a few moments of joy. Even the most miserable person has days of contentment or even brief happiness. I am no different. However, by any objective measurement, 2008 for me had far more bad moments than good ones.

In terms of my mood, though, it was one of the worst. The darkness in my heart flooded the rest of me and threatened to consume me completely. I haven't come so close to choosing suicide as I did last year. For the first time since 2000, I spent weeks at a time trapped in a self-created prison of darkness, thinking constantly of suicide and praying for an accident or a heart attack or some other socially acceptable death.

Financially, it was a catastrophe. I began last year with less than $200 to my name. I begin this year with about the same. Financial stress makes everything else difficult, but what is worse than that is the knowledge that it will never get any better. This is my life - scraping by, paycheque to paycheque - and this is all my life will ever be.

You probably wonder how I can possibly know that things won't get better. The answer is painfully simple. If things are ever to improve, then it is up to me to make it happen, and I can't, or I won't. I'm working with my psychiatrist on the reasons I subconsciously want to fail, on the reasons I unconsciously need to sabotage myself, but we have made little progress. In the mean time, I'm too afraid to change and too afraid to take any risks. I may be creating fear in myself in order to avoid taking any risks in life, but that doesn't make the fear any less real or any less paralyzing. I keep myself in a prison of fear and despair. I am the heart of my own self-contained darkness. I will do what I've always done, because deep down, I seem to want and need to be a failure.

Still, 2008 was worse than most years, and I'm glad it's gone. Fuck you, 2008. Rest in peace, motherfucker. I wish I had died, but I didn't, so I guess I have to stumble my way through another crappy year where I am the heart of the darkness I live in. Fuck.