Hey, so I can’t sleep. Ever. Maybe it will kill me and save me the trouble.
For whatever reason, I can’t get to sleep until 11:30PM. When your wake-up call is 5:45AM, you can see how this causes problems.
Of course, this does nothing for my general mood.
Lately, my pretty little hate machine has been working on smokers.
If you smoke anything–tobacco, weed, meth, whatever–I hate you and think you’re a waste of space.
Let me give you some background one where I come from. I am an asthmatic–an allergic asthmatic, which is nature’s way of saying “fuck you, fucking fucker asshole” every day for your entire life. Despite treatment, my lung function just isn’t where I want it to be. If I was able to breathe, I would run marathons, hike mountains, climb trees, learn to swim, etc. I would go outside without wearing a dust mask. I would have all sorts of pets. I would breathe deeply of the smell of grass. I would enjoy life.
So when I see you smokers–and knowing that most of you have, at least for now, decent lung function–I get pissed. You get these nice, functioning lungs and you fill them with shit. You suck down your cancer day after day, year after year, then you start bawling if or when–often when–you get cancer. You expect people to feel sorry for you! Well, I don’t feel sorry for you. As far as I’m concerned, you asked for it. You asked for the pain, you asked to gasp for air (like I do many times a week), you asked for chemo. You signed up for this.
This isn’t the age of Big Tobacco anymore. The dangers of smoking cigarettes or any other sort of substance is well-documented. So unless you’re living in fucking North Korea or you’re some illiterate farmer living in some third world country, you have no excuse.
Don’t give me this “wah wah it’s so hard to quit” bullshit. Never before has there been more ways to quit. Never before has there been more support for people who want to stop destroying their bodies. You don’t quit because, deep down, you don’t want to. If you truly wanted to quit, there would be nothing stopping you. You would be streaking into that good night, no longer a smoker. You would do whatever it takes. But until you truly, truly want it, you’re always going to be that scum-sucking piece of shit you are. No, right now things seem okay. So things will always be okay, right?
(And if there’s anyone out there wondering if I’m trying to encourage people to quit or what, I’m not. Please feel free to fuck yourselves up. Why the hell would I care about you?)
The older I get, the more convinced I am that people deserve the things that come around to them, myself included.
Oh, don’t even get me started on this nice portion of karma that gets stuffed into my eye sockets regularly. You have no idea–no idea. Mommy dearest, alarmed that I’m hurtling toward my 30s and have no friends and have never been on a date, is now pushing me to get out and socialize. After all, where is she going to get grandchildren? Who’s going to care for her when she’s old?
Brilliant. News flash: the time to encourage your mentally ill, retarded children to be normal is, yanno, when they’re children. The time to get them professional help is when they’re children. You can’t ignore your child’s depression, eating disorder, and anxiety disorders and then say “gosh golly gee, what happened?” when you end up with a reclusive, angry adult whose only redeeming quality is they’re able to hold down a job.
Mommy dearest, even more alarmed, is demanding that I go to therapy. Since I’m not going to go out and socialize, I guess I’ll make a half-assed attempt at therapy so the old bitch will get off my back. The guilt is eating at her, in part because I told her, point blank, that she fucked up, and her half-hearted attempts to get me help ten years after my problems started are not fooling me. It scares me sometimes how much my mother must think I’m retarded.
I don’t know what I’m going to get out of therapy. All therapy has ever been for me is re-hashing the same shit over and over again, with me always skirting the truth on some topics, because I’m not stupid enough to say anything that might get me committed. Not only that, but. . . I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk to anyone outside of the context of work. Sure, I can be friendly, almost normal, when I can find people I trust, and we’re working within very specific time and space boundaries, but in a therapist’s office there just aren’t enough boundaries and I don’t have enough “can’t even” to blab about my life.
Anything I get from a therapist can be obtained by my writing here and then reading the latest sappy self-help book. My problem is not that I have no self-realization. My problem is I have a lot of self-realization. I know I have depression, perhaps bipolar depression, or maybe just plain old BPD. I know I don’t have a healthy relationship with food. I know the fact that I really don’t care who I hurt is a problem. I know the fact that I try to use people is not an attractive trait in anybody. I know I have narcissistic and histrionic tendencies. I know I have social anxiety and agoraphobia. I know I have an anger management problem. But I’m operating from within this fucked up system, and it’s fucked up enough that you just can’t fix it. Not to mention that anything approaching depression or BPD is basically a long-running death sentence. You can jump on it and let it kill you like a landmine, you can numb your faces with pills, or you can let it enervate you until you’re a husk hung up in the corner.
I know I’m not very smart, and that I’ve faked my way through a lot of things. I know that I’m not a pleasant person.
There’s not much that can be done. Sorry for those with mental illness looking for hope. Depending on what particular configuration of mental illnesses you have, you may be fucked. Do what you will with that information.
Any happy stories you read about mental illness I’ve concluded are from people with milder problems. Plus, don’t you think they have a vested interest in perpetuating some happy-sappy, hippy-dippy message? Especially if they’re selling something–anything. Even a two-page pamphlet.
Don’t get me wrong. To some degree, I may be a sociopath, but I do get lonely. Sometimes I long for that human connection that I’ve never been lucky enough to have. Then I remember how territorial I am, how bad my temper is, and how lacking in affection I am. There’s no one out there for a person like me. Oh, and I’m asexual. And I despise kids. I’d throw both you and your kids in a pit.
And anyway, I hate all of you. Every last stinking, puling one of you. Just looking at you fills me with anxiety and anger.
I got a new laptop, meaning I won’t be writing on a phone anymore, meaning that I may be writing more in this journal. Depends on how pissy I’m feeling.