I’ve been thinking more since I started taking meds again. I’ve become aware of how deeply ashamed of myself I am. A moment of unwelcome emotional clarity, I guess. I get caught up in my history of regret, and I wonder what I’m still doing? Why do I continue to exist? What drives my continued activity? Haven’t I taken from everyone enough already?
I’m up against a simple choice: It seems to me, like many people may face this, and turn away from what they should do. When I have that feeling, of wanting to give in, surrender and spiral down into nothing, I don’t want to. I don’t want to be in that state. I hate it. It does not make me feel anything good. I want to be proud. I want to feel good about myself. I hate that I have few reasons to feel good about myself. I have no one, I am no body. I face my illness alone.
I will always have a support group or network or safety-net. I will have the care of doctors. Will I have someone who knows my heart, trusts me and loves me? Fuck no. Because anyone worth their weight in tissues is going to acquire a mate with an EQUAL set of values, abilities and goals. I have no future. I have no plan. I have nothing, and I will not procreate. I have no desirable quality to entice said “know-er of my heart” into proximity.
Such endeavors are futile, because I can’t trust myself. How can anyone else? I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I’ll keep sticking my nose up, and trying to get higher. I want to rise. I’m tired of being a glop of poo snot.
Each day, I get up, and I go. Each day, I try to look for what little good there is for me.