The Second Letter of Madness

I lied to myself when I thought this morning would be better. It’s not. I think it’s the self-talk that is the issue. I just need to change that. When I monitor it there is no doubt why I am so self-loathing. I would exclude my babbles from last night but that would take the spirit out of what I am trying to accomplish. Which is what you might be wondering. I wonder the same thing so if you figure it out before me, please let me know.

I suppose I always liked the book, Dear Mr. Henshaw. I have always enjoyed writing too. But without an audience, I find myself stagnant. Journaling seems boring these days explaining what I did in my day. I tend to leave out the real important things because I think that some things need not be read as part of my legacy. Not everything written is good. I am hoping by writing to you that I will find a way to feel alive again without having to drain the blood from my veins. I haven’t cut in years. I don’t ever want to have to resort to that for a coping mechanism again. I want to get over this darkness. This feeling of nothingness. This is usually where I get the good ideas. Because I am so damn bored in this stupid town that I have to dream big and dare to get out of my comfort zone or just like many before me I might die an early death.

How I have held it together this long I don’t know. I ponder the reason is for some type of retribution in a former life.  I still have to officially withdraw from my higher education. That dream no longer appeals to me. Nothing appeals to me but writing. And I am only now just able to think so freely because I have given myself someone to write to oppose to just complaining to my journal. I hope you don’t mind. If you do though know I will immediately stop.

I don’t wanna creep people out. Not like the guy at the bar the other night trying to touch me and grab me for a dance. Like dude. I am not dancing. I am fucking mourning. I want to sit here and sing this song to myself and not have to feel your ugly skin against mine. I must be a spinster. Although that is not exactly the world I want to use. I am thiry five years old and feel nothing for others. If I cared to even want to have sex it would be alone. So the idea of dancing with some drunken idiot does not appeal to me at all. I don’t want babies and I don’t want his love and affection. I don’t want to be touched or gawked at. Perhaps why my clothes never show any of my curves. Not that I have curves anymore.

I  was 110 pounds up until about five years ago. When the narcissist thought I should go on medication cause I was acting “crazy”. Ironically though, and I mean this for real as a universal truth, he caused me to go insane. So the medication I was on, Seroquel, caused me to become fat. I also honestly think it ruined my metabolism.  I went off the medication (after downing a bottle, being airlifted and placed in ICU) and decided that I no longer believed in pharmaceuticals. That was about two years ago. That was a weird attempt at my life as I felt more of being in a trance then being active in participating in the attempt. Apparently I am such a good talker that I talked myself out of the 72 hour hold. Amazing when I think back to it since I almost died. That was a turning point in my life. Regardless, I thought if I stopped the medication I could get back to my 110 pounds figure. Ha. Joke was on me. So every day I struggle with the idea that I am fat. And I am not fat fat. I am just not my idea body. I would like to think I would get it back but realistically speaking-I believe that is a lie.  I even tried exercise and cutting the carbs. I think I will just buy a tapeworm and let it go. Just kidding. So I completely understand your phrase, “I let myself go”. Then it’s like it gets to the point why bother. I am not going to get naked for another person so why does it matter if I look good naked. I suppose if I really cared I would be able to drop the weight. But I don’t care.

My mom asks me how I am doing. I tell her I am depressed. Not a lot of people truly understand such a blanketed statement. My sharpied pages from last night clearly explain what a depressed person thinks about. I don’t have the stomach to be honest and tell her this doesn’t just go away. I don’t want her to know that I have no energy to do the slightest tasks. That I can remember what I was doing at certain dates and times from years ago but I cannot for the life remember what I did with a shirt I was just wearing. I can’t explain to her that I feel better crawled up in my bed than anywhere else. I know that getting out of the house is good for me. Perhaps I will take a trip this weekend. There is a game called Ingress that has proven to help me get out of the house and find new places to visit.  It is a global augmented reality game. I explain it like this: “I am a secret agent on the Enlightened side where I hack portals, deploy resonators and drop mods on enemy targets.” Fun sounding huh? It, like everything else in my life, is just a fleeting obsession. It has already lost its appeal. But then again, everything and anything has lost its appeal.

The only thing I feel good about is writing. My deep dark depressing thoughts. That only we know about. We share a secret. Cool. Cause this shit would get me committed. And I am not in danger of myself. For once. I can clearly just pound the keyboard without planning my death. I cannot do that. I will not do that. I refuse to do that. Just so you know. As I am well aware that this shit I ink is clearly an indicator of how depressed I am. But I am going to get through it and I will have you to thank for playing a part of it. A very cheap counselor. If you want me to start sending money with my letters I wouldn’t mind. Have you ever seen a shrink? Yeah, they just sit there and expect you to do all the talking. I am not a big talker. On paper I am brilliant but when it comes to the words I have a hard time formulating thoughts to speak. Besides that is also a lot more effort than I care to exert. Such as probably why I hate the phone. Also why the idea of having coffee someday is so far fetched. What the fuck would I even talk about? Certainly this stuff stays in my head as I couldn’t muster the strength to say it out loud. Don’t get me wrong, I can speak about the dirties of life that happened to me no problem. Robotically posed as if it happened to another and not blink an eye. Wondering why people are staring at me horrified looks on their face and yet I remain stoic. I suppose I am a complicated soul. But at least I am not boring. Not with this circus in my head. Not with these letters forming words into sentences to support that I am definitely not in the norm. I am, though, alright with that. Although ignorance is bliss, it is not fun. I was sent here for wisdom and truth and that is the path I follow. Love and relationships are not for me this life. Money and power is not here for me this life. Peace and families is not here for me this life. I am here just to know everything. Like, depression. Yippee Skippee!

Regardless, I don’t think I would like to talk over coffee. I would be too self-conscious about the letters I sent forgetting that I wrote the dirties of my soul. But, I would do it for the trip. I would even fly. Apparently it’s a much more faster method then driving. Maybe one day. Maybe never. I would be lying if I said I cared all that much. I really don’t. Is that horrible? Did I just lose my fan stardom? The last thing I need is someone falling in love with me. So please don’t. I know it is hard-but contain yourself. This is meant to be a one way relationship. I would hate to have to break your heart and leave you disappointed. I am a funny fucker, aye? Yeah, a movie seems more appropriate so no one has to talk and we can just enjoy the comfort of the others presence. That just sounds super cheesy and unappealing though. I really have a thing against love these days. But for real, honestly, someday I would love to see Rhode Island. It’s just a bonus that you live there J

I am excited for the future. What the future is I am unsure, that is up to me. This I do know. I believe in the power of thought. But without something to shoot for it is impossible to do anything. If only my soul wasn’t so scared of success. If only my depression didn’t keep me bundled in blankets. I guess I am going to have to put it out there-a shout out to the universe. For it to save me as it has each occurrence in the past. To find meaning in the meaningless. Something just to keep me occupied past the depression-the darkness. You, yourself are doing a great job. I laugh. I amuse myself. I am so awesome I can’t contain myself. Seriously, despite my self-loathing I find myself to be almost like the perfect person. I am open minded however that leads to extreme indecisiveness. Like abortion. I am for and against.  Death Penalty. For and against. Like everything I can always see both ways so I tend to argue a lot with myself. That is why being completely worthless and completely awesome always battle each other for thoughts in my brain. Gawd. Im so fucking mental.

Well, I am back at the job, answering stupid phones and drafting plea documents for stupid criminals. I say that because they are stupid. Every single one of these people we represent through the state public defender’s office actually admits to their crimes when the cops question them without real evidence. It irks me. I just want to scream at them and tell them cops are not your friends. Besides based on the confession they legally obtained you have no real defense. That shit is what bothers me most about this job. Then there is a lady who I work with who is absolutely horrid. She is in her sixties and likes to inform me how to do things wrong. Plus she is mean to me. Therefor my job is not enjoyable when she is working. If there was a reason for her insecurities that was caused by me other than being my awesome self then I would have a little bit of compassion for her bitterness but as is- there is none.  She is also one of the ugliest people I have ever known. If she had some beauty on the inside it possibly might make up for her ugly face. I caught her shit talking about me one day. It was stupid. I told her a story about eating at this restaurant that was closing no doubt because they were horrible. I caught her telling our office worker my story and saying, “There’s two sides to every story.” As if I lied about my horrid meal experience. I called her out on it though. Fuck her. She is just a gossipy old haggard lady who likes drama. That is just one example of why I tend to have horrible attendance. On why it’s challenging to go to work. On why I feel the need to not care. Horrible of me I know.  In the end though I got a two dollar raise. I think one dollar of it was kinda like a bribe to pay me to stay longer as she is a difficult to deal with. In the end, it doesn’t really matter.

I wonder what the purpose of writing you is. I wonder what it is I am supposed to get from the experience? Maybe clarity of thought. Maybe I will find brilliance on paper once more. I have grown stagnant over the years. I suppose it didn’t help that I afforded my time to a narcissistic man who was jealous of my journal. Either that or he just couldn’t control what I wrote. One time he dared to yell at me over its contents. As if he had every right to read it and I had to feel bad about what was written. Of course, I stayed. I think I needed the relationship so I would know they are overall not for me. I suppose though that anyone involved with such a man would feel the same way. I hate guys. I hate girls too. Cats are where it is at and even there I am torn. Especially at 530 in the morning when Desmond wants to paw my face with his claws so I pay attention to him. But it’s 5:30 in the morning cat and I’m not all about that.

The only thing I have to look forward to is these letters. It doesn’t even matter if they are read. The point is just getting my brain working again. Reminding myself that there are words left to spring from my fingers. I never wrote about my breakup. Not really. I suppose it was too painful. Besides I realized he wasn’t worth the ink it took to write his name. I did everything I could to change everything I was able to and it never was enough. Of course one should never have to change themselves for another, but for love we as men are driven to the darkest of madness just in its name alone. As if it was even love. It wasn’t. I felt more like a prisoner then a girlfriend. He was damaged goods, even more than me. As at least I was able to be intimate and to share love. See I have an amazing heart. I love heartedly and without condition. It is like my favorite thing to do. Maybe because I don’t feel loved. Maybe cause I have never known real love. Like love between a man and a woman that was not forced or broken. And it’s nothing that I want to have either.  I just want to live in the mountains. Wake up alone with a cat in my lap and write love letters. I don’t want to live the dream that I dream.  It reminds me of the movie, The Life of David Gayle. I love Kevin Spacey and he does a great job in that movie. But he says the following which has been burned into my membrane since hearing it. It is also perhaps the best place to end this letter.

Fantasies have to be unrealistic because the moment, the second that you get what you seek, you don’t, you can’t want it anymore. In order to continue to exist, desire must have its objects perpetually absent. It’s not the “it” that you want, it’s the fantasy of “it.” So, desire supports crazy fantasies. This is what Pascal means when he says that we are only truly happy when daydreaming about future happiness. Or why we say the hunt is sweeter than the kill. Or be careful what you wish for. Not because you’ll get it, but because you’re doomed not to want it once you do. So the lesson of Lacan is, living by your wants will never make you happy. What it means to be fully human is to strive to live by ideas and ideals and not to measure your life by what you’ve attained in terms of your desires but those small moments of integrity, compassion, rationality, even self-sacrifice. Because in the end, the only way that we can measure the significance of our own lives is by valuing the lives of others.


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