I'm fucking posting it. Please don't read this; it just needs to be here.
I'm supposed to visit the shrink in about two hours, but, having no way to pay him, I'm tempted to call his office and tell him that I can't make it.
I crashed again emotionally last night, right around the time I talked to my grandfather about the shrink. I called him from a friend's cell phone at a tram station outside the Lloyd Center and felt like a lecherous bourgeois brat for asking him for a check the day before an appointment he didn't even know I had set. That nervous pinch in the gut set in about then, ruining my entire night as I replayed the conversation over and over in my head, listening to my too-eager voice saying "it occurred to me that, as a licensed clinical psychologist, he might actually want to be paid for what he's doing," and realizing how entitled that must sound.
The truth is that I don't really know for sure if it's doing me any good, talking to the doctor. I've tried to put a positive spin on it, but there's really only so much you can talk about in fifty minutes. It feels so inauthentic, really; my problems are pretty simple (I am a pathetic, lazy, directionless milquetoast) but I can't even think my way to the end of the week. My future aspirations, briefly in sharp focus, have once again become as blurred as my metaphors are surely becoming out of overuse. I've managed to make someone care about me again, managed to somehow let myself slide into a situation where my inevitable actions will hurt someone, and I hate that about me, too, because it's what I did with April and I don't care about her now, I probably did at some point in time but that was just a story, a character I played because I thought I had to or maybe because I was sick of the responsibility of defining my own life.
I don't even look forward to sex anymore, I don't even think about orgasms until I have them, even they mean substance or future tense or lasting anything, when all I really want is to degrade Heather, to use her as she seems to want to be used, to eschew my once-normal attachment in favor of this disconnection which has become infinitely infuriatingly normal. But even that's not true, I don't want someone that empty, she just represents everything empty about me right now. I think I hate her, actually, weird for someone I don't know, but at least it's feeling something. I hate the game playing, I hate remembering the numb feeling on my lips from the nicotine on hers, I hate the broken promises and hollow assurances.
I can't shut myself away and survive, but getting out and living is killing me just as quickly.
I think about dying with a sincerity that can't be real, I can imagine the moment up till and the days after like the storyteller I want to be, so cliche in my avoidance of the meaningless reality, the intensity of what would actually have to happen if I just shut the fuck up and fucked up like so many others like me do because they're not able to face the simplest fucking shit that any moderately intelligent person can face. I really don't deserve anything I've been given, and I've been given so much, which makes that stomach invert like it's trying to fold in on itself.
I feel tense, I feel like nothing I do can make me be anything like what I should be, I don't fucking feel like a man, not in that bullshit macho way but like a real, live man like a woman is a real, live woman, I only know the perks, and refuse to let myself feel the downsides.
I feel like I'm repeating myself.
The only truth I can come up with right now is that I'm still scared, and sick of that being my default feeling, and sick of having to "admit" it over and over and over again because it's not an admission so much as just me saying words, and even those are beginning to lose their meaning.
I'm running out of comforts.
I'm supposed to visit the shrink in about two hours, but, having no way to pay him, I'm tempted to call his office and tell him that I can't make it.
I crashed again emotionally last night, right around the time I talked to my grandfather about the shrink. I called him from a friend's cell phone at a tram station outside the Lloyd Center and felt like a lecherous bourgeois brat for asking him for a check the day before an appointment he didn't even know I had set. That nervous pinch in the gut set in about then, ruining my entire night as I replayed the conversation over and over in my head, listening to my too-eager voice saying "it occurred to me that, as a licensed clinical psychologist, he might actually want to be paid for what he's doing," and realizing how entitled that must sound.
The truth is that I don't really know for sure if it's doing me any good, talking to the doctor. I've tried to put a positive spin on it, but there's really only so much you can talk about in fifty minutes. It feels so inauthentic, really; my problems are pretty simple (I am a pathetic, lazy, directionless milquetoast) but I can't even think my way to the end of the week. My future aspirations, briefly in sharp focus, have once again become as blurred as my metaphors are surely becoming out of overuse. I've managed to make someone care about me again, managed to somehow let myself slide into a situation where my inevitable actions will hurt someone, and I hate that about me, too, because it's what I did with April and I don't care about her now, I probably did at some point in time but that was just a story, a character I played because I thought I had to or maybe because I was sick of the responsibility of defining my own life.
I don't even look forward to sex anymore, I don't even think about orgasms until I have them, even they mean substance or future tense or lasting anything, when all I really want is to degrade Heather, to use her as she seems to want to be used, to eschew my once-normal attachment in favor of this disconnection which has become infinitely infuriatingly normal. But even that's not true, I don't want someone that empty, she just represents everything empty about me right now. I think I hate her, actually, weird for someone I don't know, but at least it's feeling something. I hate the game playing, I hate remembering the numb feeling on my lips from the nicotine on hers, I hate the broken promises and hollow assurances.
I can't shut myself away and survive, but getting out and living is killing me just as quickly.
I think about dying with a sincerity that can't be real, I can imagine the moment up till and the days after like the storyteller I want to be, so cliche in my avoidance of the meaningless reality, the intensity of what would actually have to happen if I just shut the fuck up and fucked up like so many others like me do because they're not able to face the simplest fucking shit that any moderately intelligent person can face. I really don't deserve anything I've been given, and I've been given so much, which makes that stomach invert like it's trying to fold in on itself.
I feel tense, I feel like nothing I do can make me be anything like what I should be, I don't fucking feel like a man, not in that bullshit macho way but like a real, live man like a woman is a real, live woman, I only know the perks, and refuse to let myself feel the downsides.
I feel like I'm repeating myself.
The only truth I can come up with right now is that I'm still scared, and sick of that being my default feeling, and sick of having to "admit" it over and over and over again because it's not an admission so much as just me saying words, and even those are beginning to lose their meaning.
I'm running out of comforts.