Nonsense Confession - "The Years Have Passed So Slow and Gray, with Nothing"

 Oftentimes at night, I am kept up by the nagging thoughts that I should be doing more than I am doing, and then the panic swells within me to unbearably heightening degrees at the idea of doing anything at all. I wish I could write more, I wish I was better at writing in general, I wish I was more outgoing and confident in my approach to selling myself on my own writing, I wish my thoughts would allow me to focus on one thing in particular and I wish I had the energy to put my all into something. And I dearly wish I wasn't always feeling like I am being savagely eaten alive by my compounding worries and swirling thought patterns of hopelessness and loss. These thoughts keep me up at night, sure, but they also creep themselves through random waking moments of the day and leave me dissociating in a panic-fueled stupor not knowing exactly what to do to calm myself down. At the end of the day, I feel like a blighted stain in the universe with nothing to do but wait for the rain to fall upon me and wash me into nothingness. I can't move, I can't think, I can't create, I can't breathe, I can't survive. Too much time has passed for me, I was supposed to be gone long ago, and the only aspects of life that have given me a reason to hang on and survive ended in horrific disappointments and abandonment. Who's to say that won't happen again? Who's to say that everything I set out to do isn't predestined to chaos, upheaval, and dejection? There's no order in any of this and at a certain point, I have to stop and really wonder if I have any free will whatsoever. I am at the mercy of a great gnawing nothingness that has been occupying my skull since birth. The surroundings are chaotic and nothing feels permanent. There's no direction to my life, there's no destination I am reaching for, and there's no end goal in sight. I'm operating on borrowed time and there is a significant possibility that I missed my perfect moment to die, there's not much in the way of convincing me that things will get better. But I am being irrational and selfish. There are people out there that would disagree with me and hate me for saying any of this, there are people out there that would want me to be around and would maybe want to entwin their sordid little life with the mess that is mine. And I should be grateful, I should step out of my own rotten little head and appreciate that, I should work on myself more, I should strive for something, I should write as often as I can, I should reach out, I should overcome my own struggles and realize that I am not totally a victim to all of this. I am not a prisoner in my own head, right? 

I can tell myself this. I can write it all down, and I can do all I can to strongly make myself believe all of this. But at the end of it all, I simply can't handle existence. It is barren in its consistent joys and affirmations of life and resplendent with horrors, coldness, deadness, and a permeating gray haze that pollutes every day, every sleepless night, and every pathetic thought. I can't quite take it anymore. The place for me in this world is so utterly insignificant, so utterly pointless in the wake of all this struggling, so utterly overflowing with visions and desires for decay. And time rolls on, removing me further and further from any sort of established vision of myself and what my life is shaping out to be. Memories don't feel rooted in any sort of lived-in reality but also haunt me unendingly to the point of the simplest reminders of things past leaving me in a completely wrecked state of being. Sorrow is at the forefront of everything. It's pathetic. And even though there are possibilities of positive and fulfilling things to come in the future, I am made sick to my very core by incessant thoughts that nothing will work out, that I'm wasting my time, and that I am better suited for the worms. How do I combat any of this? Do I forever unfairly rely on others for any sense of stability and peace? Do I continue to swallow unfamiliar chemical substances to fix my fragmented brain? The side effects of twitching muscles, aching stomach, whirlwinds of heightened anxieties, increasingly vivid nightmares of events and people who have ruined me, nights devoid of consistent sleep, the total mental instability that sets in at random points in my day, the rancid occurrences of total dissociation, who cares? My being is made up of nothing but immature reactions to normal life stressors. I am ineffectual, there is little strength left. Nothing can be prevented from destroying me once and for all. I am not alone in this, I know, but it overwhelms me and as of now, there is nowhere to go with it at all. I simply can't help but think about how I felt exactly a year ago and despite the all-consuming stress of finishing my Master's degree, of looking for a new place to move to in a still relatively foreign country to me, I was perhaps the happiest (or most content) I have ever been in my life. Part of me looks at that and thinks that it's okay, if I could have been that happy before it can happen again. But another much stronger part of me believes that my time for happiness was limited to those moments and that was it, everything else is nothing but a farce. At 26 years old, I'm too old to experience anything substantial that is relatively close to true joy, elation, happiness, comfort, whatever.  I can tell myself I am wrong, I can point out people in particular who prove me and my opinions about myself and my life wrong, but often times it is just not enough. To be working towards certain goals, to want to achieve certain things in life, to want to create, to want to connect and make an impact on others' lives, all of these should be motivators enough to keep me alive. But I don't know. Panic, worry, and past experiences tell me time and time again to expect nothing but disappointment and further misery. Sure, this time last year I was with someone I poured the entirety of my being into, gave them all the love I could ever muster, and we were in the midst of being, what felt like, totally inseparably bonded to each other. I was content. But what came of that? An outcome I truly could not have seen, an outcome that I never thought would happen with this particular person, a grand betrayal and abandonment that has left me reeling in confusion and pain ever since. And the further I think I am able to get away from it, the more powerfully it all hits me again. Why wouldn't something like that happen again? I ask myself again; what is the point of perseverance? Does this unending struggle lead to anything consistent and reliably good at all? And if it does, what will that ultimately do for me? Am I able to escape the poisoning confines of the pitch-black cloud of desired death that has forever fogged up my brain? Or will I ruin all those around me before inevitably saying yes to the void and finally having the courage to let myself go? I tried it once before and failed, but I was stupid and impulsive and in hindsight clearly didn't take enough pills. Maybe then I didn't want to die, I just wanted to be asleep. But things change, I'll get there in time. 

And I don't know why I am writing any of this. I don't know why I would go ahead and publish this to a place where anyone can read this if they so wish. I suppose it's a way to expunge these thoughts, a desperate attempt to make sense of everything, to reach out into the void and hear nothing back as if all my despicable worries are being vacuumed out into nothingness. Or maybe I just want something written to prove that I am not a lazy piece of shit who can't write. Maybe I am desperate to fill up this stupid little site with enough words to prove the impossible; that what I have to say and what I feel all have validity to them. Maybe I'm trying to prove that, just maybe, I can actually write and that writing is something I should do with my life, or continue to try to do with my life. Maybe I can be productive, maybe I don't have to be at the whims of this prevailing nightmare nonsense. Maybe I shouldn't care. 

Yesterday I saw Niagara Falls. I figured I would be woefully underwhelmed, but I was quite honestly taken aback by the whole thing. It was far more impressive and magnificent and surreal than I thought it would be. But as time passed I quickly began to think nothing of it aside from looking down at the rocks and the swirling storm of raging, pummeling water, and picturing my splayed-out corpse in the midst of it all. My eyes bulging out of my battered and exploded skull, my limbs twisted in gnarled and heavily broken fragments, my skin ripping apart at the rushing of the water slamming down on my decay, my body careened and bent in impossible angles on the jagged edges of the rocks, immediate bruises on my paling flesh, my putrescence vapors spiraling into the sky above and mingling in the nostrils of all the surrounding tourists. And amongst it all, amongst my out-of-control thoughts targeted on my ugly destruction, I felt entirely alone in it all. A profound existential dread set in that made me nearly want to climb the short railing and rocket myself into the onslaught of the falls. And I felt horrible and selfish and utterly insignificant. I'm sorry to the person that cares about me, I'm sorry I feel any of this at any point, and I'm sorry that I can't say with any confidence at this point that it will get better. I can't determine what the point of my continued existence is and it is unbearable. I can't even write it eloquently or creatively, there's nothing to really say but I keep writing in a pathetic attempt to occupy my time. I don't want to be doing this anymore. I'm done.