No Exception

STOP BEING LAZY! RECORD YOUR THOUGHTS!

I spend way too much time in my head. The things that are going on need to be written down. Why? Do I want to potentially self-incriminate? Not at all, especially since I'm not committing any crimes that I'm aware of.

To work on myself I have to be honest with myself. I know my desires and I know where my morals are. Do I always live up to them? Perhaps not, though usually it's the case. Everything is easier said than done, or in my case, easier "thought" than done. It seems as if I try to rationalize that all of my desires are possible and attainable, yet what I want goes well beyond the normal realm in my life. There's only 24 hours in a day, and I only have 2 hands!

It's true, I don't have any hard drug or substance abuse addictions. In an odd way though, it clouds my judgement and feeds into my delusion that I'm "just fine." I see other people with issues and I tell myself, "Wow, I'm doing well for myself." Instead, I should be realizing that no one's perfect, everyone needs work, and I'm no exception. The comparisons to other people serve as a weak defense mechanism, which is a wall I put up to prevent me from seeing the full picture, mostly from fear.

I truthfully have had a lifelong affliction with procrastination. It's fear driven. Making decisions is perceived as risky, so I'd rather buy more and more time to think things through. The guilt and anxiety builds and I make myself into an emotional wreck. Others are then disappointed in my indecision, my lack of productivity. This then also adds to the weight on my back, the snowball effect. Then when I achieve anything it feels so much less joyous, because it's just one of MANY things that I have on my table that should have already been done in the first place. I don't feel worthy of praise for anything I do when I finally get around to doing it. Then when I don't receive any praise...I go off the deep end!

The problem is me. I know it. I need help, and I've asked for it. My mother always just dumped

her problems on me and all her frustrations. She could never be constructive in helping me through these negative behaviors, but instead just made me feel more guilty and add to my desire to make more excuses, thus sink deeper into denial. I became venomous, and also more apathetic. Any 'thing' I'd worry about would become too emotionally draining, so instead I hid under a rock. The guilt would still build. My anxiety would then manifest in emotional unavailability and outbursts of rage.

I'd compare myself to others I knew, and others I just knew of. My thoughts would turn to jealousy, in which I'd then foolishly believe that I wasn't worthy of most things, happiness being one of them. Could I have gone to college after high school? Sure! I could have been paid for a portion of it too! Instead, when I brought it up to her, my mother communicated to me that I wouldn't be able to 'handle' college. A year later she scolded me and said I could have gone for basically nothing, and I was stupid for not doing it.

I think that sums it up pretty well. Trial and error. I try, and they say I'm making an error.

Abandonware

I'm off my meds way too often. To be honest, there doesn't seem to be a definitive reason for it. It's not like I'm forgetting, and it's not like I'm trying to completely rid myself of them. Some part of me feels that it's the masochist in me that considers myself unworthy of good things. My cyan-tinted lens gives me the impression that the world outside is exactly how I feel about it. The subjective is objective, and definitely not in a healthy way. My eyes focus on the crumbling, decaying architecture. The abandoned structures. With so much time, effort, and money these places are now ignored. What was once something to look forward to is now something to be forgotten.

Overgrowth. Cracks. Plywood Boards. Graffiti. Homeless Squatters.

Perhaps this is what's always drawn me to become an Urban Explorer, as well as my affinity for post-apocalyptic media. The way I see things is a bit different. I live in a dystopian science fiction world. Love is forbidden. The privileged few are chosen, and the rest remain slaves. The news is all manipulation, run by the military industrial complex. We were all born with the desire for happiness and sold on the story about the American Dream. A happy, moral populace only exists in optimistic literature. The truth is film noir. So many of us live in constant denial about our environment. We continue because we're sold on 'hope' in one form or another. Stories reflect our desires for happy endings, that there will be a light at the end of this dark and scary tunnel.

I meditate an awful lot on this one place I live near. It's an abandoned stretch of highway that includes an overpass. When it was built it supported a good deal of Hartford County traffic. Then the DOT had better ideas and changed their mind. They made a different road, and closed off that one. Since then it's never been maintained. There are fences in place to prevent anyone from even going there. Every time I drive under it on I-84E, or above it on Rt 6, I can't help but to gaze at what remains.

What is for me there? Why do I secretly want to sneak in, against the will of authority, and just be one with the place? Does it sing a song that reverberates in my psyche?

What would I actually do if I were there aside from being motivated to take pictures and be perpetually anxious? If I knew with the upmost certainty that I wouldn't get in trouble, I'd probably just sit down on the crumbled pavement, Indian-style, close my eyes and just listen. I'd hear the constant droning of traffic above and below me. I'd hear the wildlife that now inhabit this forgotten world. I'd feel my body resting on the broken road and the weeds that grow between the cracks brushing gently against my skin with each blow of the wind. A soft rattle from a fence.

Then something else. I have no idea what it is, or how to conceive of it without actually being there. Perhaps I'd consider it an alignment of spirits, the harmony of the notes, a reawakened energy feeding off it's counterpart forces.

Don't Read This

Might be done posting these blog updates on Facebook. I feel it's the equivalent of pulling out my junk in public. It is true that one man's trash is another man's treasure, however I'd rather they come looking for it. The archaeologists.

If I had absolute proof of what the future holds, and there was no way I could change it, I'd probably kill myself. Part of what keeps me around is that I'm not skipping any pages. When I begin to think about the future, I mostly get depressed. True, I'm hopeful at times, in that I may actually accomplish a life goal here and there, although it ends right there. Ignorance is bliss. If I'm truly set up to fail, I sure as hell don't want to know about it! It's quite easier to take if it hits me out of nowhere, rather than having to dwell on those thoughts indefinitely.

The thoughts I have lately are dangerous and addictive. They are the car wreck you can't stop looking at. You hope you don't see blood and dismemberment, yet you make every attempt to find it. There it is! Just as you anticipated. The driver is completely crushed and still alive. He won't make it, and there he is motionless, waiting to die. So then what? Now feel helpless and hopeless. For the rest of the day, and perhaps for the next few weeks, you'll have that image in your head, dwelling on the concept of mortality.

So what was his purpose? To be born into this world, go to school, then work for a short period of time until that fateful night? I'm sure he touched people along the way during his life's journey, so it's not all a complete loss. He may have been a jerk too, and the world may be better off without him. Heck, he's the one who wasn't wearing a safety belt. He's the one who drove while intoxicated. It was those poor judgement skills that ceased his existence.

I'm here alone most of the time with no one to influence me except my own consciousness. By design, I'm isolated from all possible assistance. It's become part of the routine that I can't shake. My bad habit. My addiction to seclusion.

I very much long for a deep conversation. Not just an inner monologue. My body yearns to connect. Instead of actively seeking this out, I'm still wearing my mask and pretending I'm all set. My control issues don't allow my emotional requirements to become fulfilled. It's a defense mechanism that was created long ago and upgraded throughout the years from being exploited by others. It manifests itself through cynicism, humor, dismissal, lite-hearted words, ignorance, anxiety, and real palpable fear. As potentially dangerous they are, I'm walking on stilts just to oversee the world below. Besides, some people find me talented and amusing!

They can see it, I bet. Everyone. Everyone has problems of their own and no one's seeking you out, ready to make you feel better. Well...maybe guys, since they're genetically programmed to fix everything. (Which, understandably, drives women nuts...) This is why most of the time I've resorted to turning on the furnace and letting the hot air blow straight into my blog.

As a man, admitting these things goes against my nature. Stupidly, throughout the years I wondered why women kept a distance from me when I poured my heart out to them. Fucking duh! They saw me as another woman in need! And straight girls don't go after gay girls like myself!

I've been told the ratio on average is 1 woman to every 4 men commit suicide. It must have something to do with the belief structure that's been created within our society. Better yet, the ignorance of the masses! Men CAN ask for help, but then the guy who does NOT ask for help gets the girl! Of course there are exceptions, though generally our world operates in this fashion. An asshole will still get dates, and even find idiots to care for them. It's all a game. The challenge is to get the ice to melt. And then what? Game over! Search for another frozen corpse to thaw out!

Copy, paste, delete, repeat.

Yet somehow men are supposed to continue to have all the answers? It's a fucking test, and if you leave the questions blank you still get them wrong! Perhaps I should stop generalizing, since I'm only really speaking from my own experience, and perhaps I'm basing this on a theory that most guys indeed have similar issues in life.

The bottom line is that I want a physical display of empathy, and not have any fear, or any reason to fear, that opening up does more harm than good.

Void Where Prohibited

I find it difficult to have any optimism when sailing in a wooden ship on a sea of lava. The best possible scenario is for me to just throw a few cedar chips down, close my eyes, and take deep breaths. That, and perhaps sprinkle a little ground cinnamon and nutmeg into the mix?

I'm realizing that I'm at that point again where it's difficult to be creative. My inner hipster judge keeps telling me that everything I'm doing is garbage. Everything I'm about to write has already been said. My feelings are all invalid. When I have a thought, it's immediately countered with another thought. "I can't write this because if I think things through,..." It's that sort of thing. Yet I DESPERATELY need to be creative. The lack of it is killing me.

The blank page, my arch nemesis. Alluring and frightening.

On top of that, my environment makes it increasingly difficult to stay motivated. Yeah, yeah...excuses. Fuck it, it's goddamn true! I don't have the leisure time I once had, and even during those moments I'm extremely limited in what I can actually do. Of course, I must own up to a portion of it, since I set myself up this way. The dice were rolled. The slot machine lever was pulled. It's my fault that my emotional bank account now has a negative balance, because I didn't know when to stop. Wait...that's a lie. I knew, everyone knows. It was denial. I said, "Hey, why not? It's worth it!" All I chose to see around me were the lucky ones, and so "Why not me?"

Maybe it was the dealer. Maybe I didn't read that Power Poker book well enough.

Maybe I should have just folded to begin with.

Nothing good in life is ever free. There's always a catch. If it sounds too good to be true, trust your fucking instincts!

Proving Ground

To the reader of this, you should know by now that this is the place I drop off all my demons. Not much good comes from it. It's cheaper than paying a shrink, especially with my craptastic insurance. And what would they tell me that I don't already know? (Fuck you spell-check! Craptastic is a word!)

I thought these pills were supposed to stop me from thinking this way! What gives?

Is it my environment? My life? Or just my perception of how things are, unable to be satisfied with it? Anger Management has to do with consciously understanding that things in life don't always go the way you want them to, and that's not always a bad thing. I've told myself over and over that I have low expectations, and so when even those aren't met I become discouraged and distraught. Perhaps I AM asking to0 much from the world and the people who inhabit it. My addictive personality makes it so I never have exactly what I'm looking for, yet I keep believe the treasure is there if I just keep digging. I'm following a never-ending rainbow to a non-existent pot of gold. The leprechaun is laughing his tiny little shillelagh off.

And I don't blame him one bit.

I know all of this is wrong. Material possession doesn't bring everlasting joy. People will never give you exactly the attention you think you deserve. So becoming obsessed with these desires is foolish. Why then can't I stop?

I want emotional support. I'm needy. I'm emotional. And mankind tells me this is wrong for a man. No one has any interest talking to a basket case guy! So, like the majority of people out there, I have to repress everything. Repress my moods. Repress my emotions. Put on a mask of confidence, for that's what people want. And more than anything, I want to GIVE what people want!

Connection. Empathy. Support.

Once perhaps I foolishly believed that admitting these things was a good idea, that someone gets me, that someone gives a shit. No one ever thinks that doctors need doctors too! And if they did, that would make those doctors somehow more vulnerable, which equates to less qualified. Of course I'm being general here. This can't be 100% true. I've not found any evidence to the contrary, though I still somehow have a morsel of faith left.

My modus operandi has always involved creating, building, fixing, expressing, and entertaining. Doing these things brings me joy. Connecting socially, emotionally, physically is pure bliss. Pursuit of happiness? That's me on car with my eyes on the prize.

And yet I seem to just be chasing that rainbow.

The Pillow To Muffle My Screams

Fuck you:

- Peers from middle school who acted nice sometimes, but mostly made me feel like shit. If I could find you on facebook, I'd explain to you people the 'degree of asshole' you fuck faces were, and probably still continue to be. Did it feel good to push and shove someone half your size? Did you get the attention you desired? And to those teachers, peers, guidance counselors: thanks a bunch for not standing up for that scared little boy.

- Women from my past who cheated on me. Good job, go out with me just so you can get bored and want to fuck some douche on the side. Thanks for fucking with my head. I'm sorry you couldn't deal with a nice, loving guy who only wanted to love you.

- Judgmental pricks who you can never impress. Continue putting down everything everyone enjoys in their lives. Continue looking for fights to win and earn achievements for. Make your shitty opinion heard loudly and keep trying to manipulate others into thinking just like you. Also, great work calling out that guy in public for his minor, trivial mistake, because everyone's better off for you making that clear.

- Sociopaths. The 4% of the human race on this planet that consist of you guys are great at making the lives of others miserable. You are the reason people wear their masks, hide their feelings, and lose their trust. Too bad you'll never know what love and empathy are, though we can only hope that you fuck up sometime along the way and get killed in the process.

- Creepy people. Did you get what you wanted from me? You spent some hard time trying to convince me you were fun and generally caring, while instead you actually just wanted to use me for your fucked up impulses. Thanks for making me falsely believe there was someone out there that would understand me.

- Mass news media. Great work at perpetuating the lie. No one will ever be content, but instead always yearning, purchasing, easily influenced to make bad decisions that you can exploit. Even if someone finally sees through your garbage, they'll never be able to convince the others of it.

- Majority of organized religion. In the name of love, all you've done is hate and create hateful, selfish people. You gave an excuse for some to feel superior over others just because they won some good nerd points with memorizing the book. Continue exploiting those words for your own personal agenda and don't let me stand in your way of leading well meaning, lost souls out there into your carnival of rip offs and false dreams.

- Telemarketers and door knockers. You prey on people's good will and only end up hardening their hearts. The physical world has become so disgusting with you in it, and because of your actions, well-meaning people only get lost between the cracks. To listen to what you have to say for even a second is the equivalent of letting a snake eat me whole, just because he's hungry.

- Sane world. Where the fuck are you!? I was told you exist, but I've searched for so long to find you and haven't had any new leads lately. At least give me a clue!

Within Rubble

"muffled cries

cold lament

silence heard

below cement

on deaf ears

voices mourned

without a chance

no one warned

visible hand

yearns for love

weeping woman

the mother of..."