| Updates: Media (lyrics) has a new layout. I could never figure out how to lay it out, but it's easier to navigate now. I'm still working on a better duplicate Mamblog mod. I'm trying to make submittions easier but the poetry form died for some reason. Quizzes are also on their way from the old site. Joomla content isn't very code friendly so I'm having to rewrite old code. You can still click on News > AH v21 > Screen if you wish to use the quizzes. |
| 'the agony and the ecstasy' |
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They say depression is a never-ending battle. I fear that they are right yet I know I'm in the wrong for believing them. They are the voices in my head--my conscience--telling me I'm dumb. They tell me there's no room left for hope. They are all around me, all the time. I fight with myself in a never-ending battle to find perfection. There is no such thing as perfection. Everyone has flaws. Yet I continue to search for it, tirelessly. I agree with myself...never. I can make no decisions for myself. I cannot trust my own thoughts because I am always at war with them. Am I going to say the right thing? Answer the question correctly? Be mocked and laughed at? These are the things I fear the most. This is where my silence has emerged. It is my shield from the world and the people around me. I spend days on end--alone--talking to voices on the computer screen. They are not real. I will never meet them, understand them, or talk to them face to face. They are worlds away. But this makes me feel whole. Like I am not alone. More human. Like I have a purpose and it is being fulfilled. This is why I continue. I continue not for my family, friends, whatever else there is, but for my one love, and for the fact that my cowardess lurks deep within. I fear being unsuccessful, mocked, sheltered. I want to be independent--they won't let me. They shelter me from all that is real and true to me. The razor is that tool searching deep within my skin for courage. It's there, somewhere. I just haven't found it yet. I fear for the day that I DO find it-if that day ever comes. I was reading an article that started with the paragraph: I once heard someone say that depression makes poverty look like a picnic. In the economic sense that may be true. But in the psychiatric sense, serious depression makes psychical death look like a party. I laugh when I read this but I should take it to heart. Nothing phases me anymore. When I see suffering I feel nothing--maybe because I believe no one has suffered as I have. None of these people have felt the mental anguish that I have felt. They have all wanted to live--I on the other hand have no fear of death, rather I welcome it. I call this thing I search for courage. I believe this thing is actually clarity. A reason. I am filled with confusion. My journal entries jump from one subject to another at each sentence. I cannot focus on any one topic for more than a few moments. I know my reasons for hate, for lack of trust in all areas, for anguish. I just have not yet learned how to organize them into a complete thought, or rather an expression. People ask me what is wrong--I often times don't have an answer. They get frustrated with me, but there is nothing I can do to arrange my thoughts into complete sentences, nor can I trust their reaction to the final product. I'm fine. I'm okay. Yes, everything is all right. I'm just tired, I only got three hours of sleep last night. I just haven't eaten much today. Don't ask me that again--I'm fine. What else do you want me to say? I don't remember my childhood. It makes me even sadder to remember it. I try to forget all the happiness, love, and childish courage that seeped from me. I have been successful so far. I have put the past behind me-for good. The child I once was seems now like a lifetime ago. I have lost all faith in common things-faith that tomorrow will come, that my family will always be there for me, that there is always hope. Though I lost faith in hope long ago. Hope only leads to anguish, to distrust. I distrust...everything. From the reality that death will come to the batteries in my computer. They say they last for two to three hours but I trust them not. Death seems so far away. And it most likely is...no matter what my future holds. I have not the courage to pull something of that magnitude together into one organized thought. I am not that person I used to be, many years ago. I applaud myself for this. Who I was has died down some now but everything else has flared and is burning strong. I worry still but not over the things that used to worry me...the words that will inevitably fall from my mother's mouth without a single thought from her brain...the reality that lies ahead...my uncertain future, and it mixing with my darkened past. I want to be someone I'm not, or rather become someone I do not have the strength to conquer. This is my goal. I want dreadfully to be happy, but this mask I have placed in my past. I want simply to be sad...more so than currently, but my lack of courage has barricaded the path that leads the way. The things I once thought I wanted so badly are now things too far from my reach. I loved so many things. I loved to watch the sun rise, the fireworks in the park on the fourth of July. I loved the birds in the air and the flowers in the ground. I loved everything. I now devote myself to the sun set, my dark and abstract paintings that reflect my feelings. I love the scars on my body, and the pain that caused them. I see no future. I no longer see the one that used to excite me. All hope is lost to fear. "Slowly, any and all warmth that once dominated the visionscape of the mind is replaced by the desperation and bitter cold of emotional pain. Unfortunately, depression doesn't kill all of the brain and stop one from breathing. No, it's victim is all too aware of the hell into which he has slipped. But the emotional rigormortis has made climbing out all but impossible. He watches his life slowly become frostbitten and dies. Suddenly, he's face to face with the painful reality that he just is. He's just there...not alive and not dead...just being. His old life is just a shimmer of hope onto which he clings. Never knowing if he will return but staying totally focused on the dim light of those memories that remind him of what once was. He waits in a suspended state of emotional desperation never accepting the predicament but realizing that he cannot extract himself. He teeters upon the razors edge between surviving the mental ice age and precipitating his own physical death." Welcome to Hell. View the entire article (quoted sections) at "The Agony and the Ecstasy" by Timothy Hoy) Last update: 16-07-2000 23:00
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