I'm afraid that I'm going crazy.
There's a part of me that started to panic when I realized what my last entry revealed to, essentially, the whole world.
But there's another part of me, a strong, overwhelming part, that doesn't understand what the big deal is. Who gives a fuck? It's not like my blogs get visitors beyond the handful of people I've led directly to it. It's not like I can fake being okay for much longer. They call it "major depressive disorder" (MDD), "clinical depression," or, as I like to refer to it, "being fucked up in the head." Inability to experience pleasure from most aspects of life. Severe insomnia, and sometimes hypersomnia. Delusions, social withdrawal, an overwhelming feeling of apathy towards anything and everything. "Chemical imbalance in the brain," they said. "Not your fault," they said through the pills in the tiny paper cup beside the plastic cup of water beside the meal brought up to the psychiatric ward in the hospital. But that was over a decade ago.
I'm fairly certain that I'm just losing it.
People tell me that some of the greatest works of art and some of the most creative minds are marked by some sort of tragedy or irregularity. I know that a lot of the prose I pen while I'm hurt turn out to be my best. I know that beauty can come from madness. I know Van Goh and I know Joyce and I know that I know that I know all of that.
If that's true, I don't want to be creative anymore.
I want to sit and be boring for the rest of my life.
I want to be uninteresting.
I want to be able to laugh it all off.
I want to be dull.
I want to not feel my little heart being wrenched—not a "broken heart," but a suffocating one, trapped between two lungs about to burst screaming if only the air weren't so delicious with life.
I want to see my kindred spirit in someone who did not commit suicide at the age of 30, someone who's name is invoked to explain why me. Why me? Dear God, why me?
I want to be stupid.
I want to be happy.
There's a part of me that started to panic when I realized what my last entry revealed to, essentially, the whole world.
But there's another part of me, a strong, overwhelming part, that doesn't understand what the big deal is. Who gives a fuck? It's not like my blogs get visitors beyond the handful of people I've led directly to it. It's not like I can fake being okay for much longer. They call it "major depressive disorder" (MDD), "clinical depression," or, as I like to refer to it, "being fucked up in the head." Inability to experience pleasure from most aspects of life. Severe insomnia, and sometimes hypersomnia. Delusions, social withdrawal, an overwhelming feeling of apathy towards anything and everything. "Chemical imbalance in the brain," they said. "Not your fault," they said through the pills in the tiny paper cup beside the plastic cup of water beside the meal brought up to the psychiatric ward in the hospital. But that was over a decade ago.
I'm fairly certain that I'm just losing it.
People tell me that some of the greatest works of art and some of the most creative minds are marked by some sort of tragedy or irregularity. I know that a lot of the prose I pen while I'm hurt turn out to be my best. I know that beauty can come from madness. I know Van Goh and I know Joyce and I know that I know that I know all of that.
If that's true, I don't want to be creative anymore.
I want to sit and be boring for the rest of my life.
I want to be uninteresting.
I want to be able to laugh it all off.
I want to be dull.
I want to not feel my little heart being wrenched—not a "broken heart," but a suffocating one, trapped between two lungs about to burst screaming if only the air weren't so delicious with life.
I want to see my kindred spirit in someone who did not commit suicide at the age of 30, someone who's name is invoked to explain why me. Why me? Dear God, why me?
I want to be stupid.
I want to be happy.
2 comments:
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