Life is a cynical comedy. Not all the time but it tends to punch you in the gut when you least expect it. Here I was, thinking I made so much progress. Refined my thoughts over the past months and years. Created new mental frameworks I felt comfortable living with. On a solid trajectory towards a brighter future, a better and more stable me.
And suddenly I find myself three quarters of a bottle of whiskey deep in existential despair. Old habits die hard, I guess. What good is all that knowledge and introspection I gathered, if I have no idea how to put it to use when it matters most?
In the past, I was usually pretty good at figuring out the reason why I spiralled out of control again. Some messed up shit happened in my life and on I went on my merry path into the joys of self-destruction.
But this time it’s different. I have absolutely no idea what’s going on. I just know that I’ve been feeling like shit for months. And none of my usual, healthy, coping strategies seem to work. I sleep enough, workout like crazy, take care of my diet and, besides from the occasional self-loathing episodes or a social gathering, don’t touch an ounce of booze.
Still, everyday feels like I’m a prisoner inside my mind and the warden is just mocking me constantly. “You are nothing. A worthless piece of shit. Everyone knows how useless you are, they are just too polite to tell you. The world would be completely indifferent, if you just offed yourself.”
I know these are lies. I know that my mind is trying to tell me a false story about myself. Trying to bring back the crackpot monkey from a different time. A beast I buried so deep inside myself, I swore to never submit to it again.
But knowing and feeling are two very different things. Because I feel like all these lies are nothing but the truth.
How do I convince myself that they are not?
Sure, therapy is an option, and one I’ll consider again. But with my luck, I will just hear the same responses as last time “Sorry, no room for new patients” or, my favourite one, “Sorry, we don’t take patients with borderline” – ah, fuck you, too. If even the trained professionals are not willing to do their fucking job, what the hell am I supposed to do?
Back to months of introspection, trying to figure what the fuck is wrong with me, weed out the cause, feel better and wait until the next cycle begins? I’ve repeated this so many times by now, it really gets tiresome. But since I’m not suicidal, I don’t really have any other option left, I suppose.
This whole situation fucks with all the other plans I had as well. Currently, there are about five other essay drafts in my notebook, which I wanted to finish and publish here. But I simply wasn’t able to. And don’t even ask me when the last time was, I worked on my manuscript. That sounds like a shitty excuse to postpone everything once more. I know. I wish, I could just disconnect myself for three months or so from society and only focus on writing. But, of course, there are too many responsibilities which make this impossible.
Or maybe I should do it regardless, at least to some degree. Only work, writing and working out, with sleep breaks, of course. Maybe if I commit myself to an intense period of focus, my mind will somehow get its shit together as well. Although I have my doubts about that.
Ideally, I’d have an environment completely void of distractions at my disposal. But that’s another impossibility with the whole world right at your fingertips. And I barely even use social media these days.
Fuck. Why does this mental health shit have to be this hard?
I probably “just” need some new perspectives. New ideas which illuminate my thoughts in ways I wasn’t aware of before. But none of the new books I read in recent history, provided me with these. Often it was more of the same, things I already knew, just repackaged and with some more details. Nothing inherently wrong with that, always nice to deepen one’s knowledge but it also completely lacks the spark of a new discovery. I’m pretty sure there are books and ideas out there which can provide me with the insights I so desperately crave. I just wish I had a way of finding them.
In the meantime, the warden of my mental prison is bashing his baton against the bars of my cell. His grin wide and as rotten as his intentions. If only I could grab his fat throat and rip out his vocal cords. Suddenly everything would be quiet. No more bashing, no snarky remarks. Just me, with bloody hands and a piece of flesh between my fingers. Drop it to the ground and smash it under my boot.
BANG!
Here he comes again, puts a sudden end to my short dream of peace. No escape. Not for me. He enjoys torturing my mind too much. Why would he ever allow me to deny him this pleasure?
How to defeat an enemy you can’t touch? One who knows all your weaknesses, all your insecurities and doesn’t hesitate to exploit every last one of them. Who forces you into an endless loop of stagnation. You know you have to get out, break free. But every attempt gets crushed with absolute brutality. Every time you think you grasp some fresh air, he pulls you back into your cage, revealing the illusion it was all along. This is the worst kind of torture. A continuous promise of freedom and hope, just to take it away as soon as you think you can reach it. He shatters your spirit over and over again, until there’s nothing left but a broken, empty husk of what you once called self.
No matter how many times I tell myself, that none of it is real, the effects on my mental state certainly are.
My warden conned me into believing that the prison in my mind is as real as the keyboard I’m typing these words on. And currently, I have no idea how to break free. Doesn’t matter what I tell myself. He just lurks around the corner, waiting for his moment to crush my aspirations once more.
Fuck him. Fuck all of it. I want to scream so loud, everything around me would start to crumble. If only that was possible. I would probably do it. In a heartbeat. Just let it all out. The pain, the anger, the frustration, the fear, everything.
Every disappointment, every betrayal, every insecurity, every feverish nightmare – just burned to ashes during one moment of complete relief.
Maybe one day. Maybe a future version of me.
First, I must defeat a sheer invincible enemy. But everyone has a weakness. He’s a part of me and I have plenty. Only a matter of time until I find his.
Game on.
Egotheist 