My Thoughts Are Pollution

Coming-of-age ramblings that don't mean much in the long run

Month: October, 2014

A Different Kind of Survivor’s Guilt

Lately, with this massive writer’s block I’ve been suffering from, I’ve been thinking a lot about where my creative urges stem from. I’ve been questioning myself, and trying to figure out why I feel so much pressure to make something amazing, even when the idea of pulling it off is so soul-crushingly overwhelming that it drives my already-severe anxiety to new levels.

I’ve found that part of the reason I have that creative urge is due to the accident I was in when I was a child. And no, it’s not as simple as “the trauma of the experience is driving me to do something” because in reality, I don’t have any actual drive. I don’t have the motivation to do anything. The only reason I ever get anything done is because I force myself to do it. So the accident hasn’t given me any drive, or motivation. It’s a little bit more complicated than that.

I survived something I shouldn’t have. I went through a horrible ordeal that permanently scarred my body and mind. I think… I think I’m just searching for some sort of meaning in that. I’m looking for a reason it happened. My creative pursuits are an attempt to justify the horrific memories that I have, because if I don’t do anything with it, then that means that it all happened for no reason. If I don’t craft something out of those haunting memories, than those memories just exist. I just can’t live with the idea of letting all of that pain go to waste. It feels… wrong. I have to make something out of them.

I’ve been wondering lately if that even matters. I’ve been feeling so down that even taking a breath every now and then feels meaningless. If even breathing is meaningless, how can I ascribe meaning to those events?

After I thought all of that through, I got scared. I got scared that all of my creative urges are based on something so flimsy, and that I don’t actually have any talent, or any real reason to live.

I’m afraid that my writing isn’t going to come back. That’s really what all of this is about.

The Block

I am suffering from a serious case of writer’s block. I haven’t been able to write anything lately. Not songs, not blog posts, not even email responses to the few friends I have. It’s really taking a toll on me. I don’t know what the cause is. Maybe it’s the medication, taking my mind from me. Maybe I’m just paranoid about it being that. Maybe it’s the shitty job I have, which is sucking away at the edges of my existance, dulling what little individuality I have left. Maybe it’s the full stop that my life has come to, and I need to have some fresh experiences before I can write again. Maybe it’s just the whole “I haven’t been on drugs in over a year” thing finally catching up to me. I wish I knew what the root cause was, though knowing wouldn’t really help. I mean, I can’t quit taking my meds, I’m quitting my job regardless of its effect on my psyche, I don’t know how to get my life moving again, and I’m not all that interested in getting high again.

Maybe it’s because I’m actually (finally) getting over the ex-girlfriend from a year ago. You know, I could just be running out of things to bitch about. Well, no, that’s definitely not it, if I actually think about it. I fucking hate my job and can definitely bitch about that. I’ve been so miserable that I slashed up my arms again, and I had made it over two months without doing that.

God, I don’t know what my fucking problem is. Writing is all that I have. Without writing, I’m just another burned-out twenty-something with no direction in life. I mean, hell, even with writing I’m pretty much that, without it… I’m little more than a fucking husk of a human being. I hope something comes back to me. I hope it’s not gone forever. You can rest assured that if I end up with the impression that it’s never coming back, that I’ll… Well, you know. I’ll quit. No, not writing. Breathing. There’s not really any point to this whole thing, this “breathing” and this “experiencing” if that’s literally all I’m doing. If there’s no means and there’s no end then isn’t my existence just one big redundancy? “I want to contribute / to the chaos / I don’t want to watch and then complain.” This all feels so meaningless. I feel so small. I feel like there are a million paths I could be walking down right now, but I’m just standing still.

Where do I go from here?

[Quote is from the song Twin Sized Mattress by The Front Bottoms]

There Were Scars On His Face

Today at work, I saw a man who was likely a burn victim, like me. He had scars on his face, while mine are all in places that are easily hidden.

I thought about saying something to him, but I didn’t.

I wonder if he noticed my frequent glances in his direction, and if he thought I was just another gawker.

I wonder if we would have had a great conversation, or if it would have been just as awkward as I imagined it would be.

I wonder how long it will be before I see another person “like me”, and if when the time comes again, I’ll say anything to them.

I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to another person with scars like mine before. I’ve never met someone who has the same horrific memories of pain and fear that I do. I don’t know what I would say, or what I should say. I don’t know. Maybe I missed out on something today.

I haven’t been able to write music for almost two weeks now.

I’m upset.

I’ve barely been able to write blog posts, responses to messages from people who matter to me in some form or another. I’m completely stuck, and it’s depressing.

And I’m having a rough time. Surprise! Have I ever written anything really and truly positive that would lead anyone to believe I wasn’t having a rough time? Oh wait, yeah, there was that one time when I falsely believed that I was doing better when I wasn’t. Sorry guys. That was a fluke. As it turns out, the real me is just this sarcastic and depressing piece of shit who can’t get over himself.

Sorry. I’m not trying to be a dick. It’s just sort of coming out that way, and… yeah. Sorry.

Here’s a song by someone else, since I’ve barely given you any content of my own as of late.

Letters to God

Hey, man.

I know we don’t talk much, but that’s because I don’t believe in your existence. It’s a shitty thing to say, I know, but lets face it: the odds are against you.

Anyways, now that our re-introduction is out of the way, I just wanted to let your likely non-existent self know that I could  really use a hand right now. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone in my life than I have over the last year. The only time I’ve even felt a sense of comradery with anyone since last August was when I was in the hospital.

I don’t know what’s up with my head lately, either. I was all happy and totally stoked a week or two ago; now I’ve slipped back into a scary place. I’m not sleeping, and then I’m sleeping too much. I cut the shit out of my arm on Monday. I wish there was someone around that I felt comfortable with. I mean, I’m stuck here living with my parents; I should be able to talk to them, right? Well, I can’t. I really can’t. My mother has had issues with self-harm in the past, and still struggles with depression, so she totally understands what I’m going through, but I just can’t talk to her about it. She makes it about her. She asks me what she can do to help, and nobody can do fucking anything to help, she should know that better than anyone but she still asks me anyway. She feels guilty, like it’s her fault that I’m cutting myself, and feels no restraint when it comes to expressing that. It’s all under the guise of “making sure I’m in a good place” but when I talk to her about my problems, my problems become about her and they’re just fucking not about her, holy shit, they’re so not about her. So I live with someone who understands, but I can’t speak to her about it because it makes everything worse. And I don’t feel comfortable talking to her about it anyway.

The closest thing I have to a comfortable place to talk about it is my support group, which is dedicated to that sort of thing. I had to tell them I slipped up when I went last time. Man, did that suck. Nobody judged me, they never do, but it’s still hard to admit that you fucked up when you  did.

I just wish there was a single person in my life that I felt truly comfortable around.

I used to have that, but he still lives where I used to live and I haven’t seen him since I moved out here.

I used to have that, but she cheated on me and left me to die in my dump-ass rental home.

I used to have that, but I owe her money that I’m never paying back.

I used to have that, but he disappeared for two years on a mission serving you, of all people, and I haven’t seen him since.

I used to have that, but he joined some aspect of the military and found other friends.

I used to have that, but they’re all still smoking pot or doing X or taking speed or dropping acid or getting totally plastered every day and I’m reluctantly sober.

I used to have that, but now I’m all alone.

I know you don’t really exist, but could you send somebody here anyway? Just work through your non-existence, do something for me, please.

I need somebody.

 

[Please don’t tell me there’s a god in the comments, I really don’t think that’s going to help. And by that I mean it’ll make me feel worse if that’s the only thing you got out of reading this; that I need religion in my life. I’ve been there, done that. Not for me. If that’s all you have to say, please say it to someone else. I’m borderline suicidal right now and I don’t need to argue with you.]