I feel like i should be in a psych ward right now. My mom's gonna serve me some hot chocolate - she's nicer than the nurses, no shock treatments for me. I'm trying to stay away from certain subjects but shock treatments aren't all that shocking, just a little black humour, it's a good anecdote to genuine misery and dread.
Dez is having a hard hard time tonight. Her parents behaved in a shockingly tactless, perhaps even cruel way, although I can't say I have a complete grasp of the relevant events. I feel bad for her. Fuck that, I feel horrible for her. I feel her pain, she makes SURE that I feel it. She wants me in her maudlin movie, but it's darker than the soil of hades and its acid content is through the roof - it's eating through my stomach lining. I don't have a strong stomach, I don't want to be in the movie, I want to write a new ending. But I haven't got creative control. And now I'm getting self-absorbed because I can. Something to do. It's not about her anymore, it's about me. Cause this is my silly little blog.
I feel too bloody much, I'm starting to get the allure of zoloft and effexer. Sometimes I feel like I've connected to only the negative hemisphere of the cosmic consciousness, and I feel the world's pain without getting in on the good stuff.
It's difficult dealing with her particular nexus of pain, I just can't seem to lend a hand, and I don't like being roped into the pain. I'm probably missing some simple obvious method of reacting that would solve all these problems.
Problems, problems, brushfires... I left the door open. At least I'm in a safe space. Physically. The house is safe, it's my mind I'm worried about, the real cage. Its capacity to generate nightmares. Maybe I won't miss it, assuming the personal ego dissipates into a larger consciousness after death that isn't consumed with ridiculous anxieties and petty melodramas that seem so important, so omega, so end of the line, so fuck this i'm outa here, i didn't ask to be born.
Maybe this is what I get for alluding to suicide. Maybe when I alluded to it, with the sneering sarcastic tag "this isn't a cry for help", I was being a real dishonest prick. No, actually scratch that, I was just being stupid. No, actually, I was just sharing thoughts, like I always do, and one happened to be about Camus' "only important philosophical question". I dunno, life ebbs and flows. Life is beautiful, then it's not worth the candle. Then it's alright, I guess, then it's "let's ride this life thing out and see where it takes me".
It feels good to cry, it helps dissipate the pain through tears of shame - eye juices, ocular lubricant. But after all the tears, I'm still wondering, I could be recovering, even climbing back to life affirmation, all the while a thing to cry about is going on that would dwarf recent trauma. Well there's always shit happening all over the world. In the time it takes to sniffle in a breath of air, a hundred people will have been emotionally devastated, physically eviscerated. And somewhere in Scottsdale Arizona, some jackass in the suburbs won the lottery. I don't envy him though, now he has a lot to lose - what goes up must come down.
Haven't used writing as therapy in quite a while, I guess its utility increases inversely proportional to its use. Been thinking about seeing a shrink too, but there's still my personal stigma surrounding that. But a lot of people seem to get some real help for some real problems. For Tony Soprano though, I'd call it an indulgence. Sure, it would be stressful running a mob family, but when you make a living by stealing and killing and fucking people over, you don't get to bitch about stress. Fuck Mr. Soprano, and fuck his shrink too. Melfi's hot for him, she's just hiding it like a pro.
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