But Maybe Someday

I routinely, randomly think about harming myself.  "Passive suicidal ideation" is the technical term.  Mostly it's because I tire of hassling with my mood.  I'm wearied with what seems like the constant struggle to get through my day and take care of the obligations of semi-responsible adulthood, only to wonder, when the day winds down, what I've gained or why I've bothered.  Life holds no intrinsic value for me, though I realize this isn't the perspective of most people.  The idea that one should be pleased solely because one is alive is alien to me; I usually feel the reverse.

 

I've tried to hurt myself seriously twice in my life, and I barely survived the second attempt well over a decade ago.  However, I really don't think I'm at any risk for another attempt.  While I might not think much of life, I have a well-developed fear of pain, the experience of death and the unknown.  I actually believe I've been more sanguine as I've stayed sober and made other positive changes.  (Contrary to my attitude here.)  But then it's often hard for me to have perspective when it comes to my moods.  I think I'm just in a low arc of the seemingly ever-present shadow of P.A.W.S.

 

Personal Roundup

 

In spite of all my gloom & doom, I've been doing fairly well.  As of my last weighing, I've lost a total of 11 pounds since my latest spike, although I made the mistake of calculating my BMI.  I still have to lose 27 more pounds to go from obese to just fat.

 

Days sober: 7 months, 17 days

Weight: 242 pounds

Debt: Still don't want to think about it...

See I've Already Waited Too Long

Waiting has been a theme for most of my life, the life that passed me by as I made plans for when my unrealistic pipe dreams came true.  Now, of course, I'm simply waiting for my outlook to look rosier and to reap the alleged rewards of self-discipline.  And I have to wonder if that will ever happen either.  It's so easy for depressives to believe that everyone sees the world as we do with its weariness and dreariness and that the world will be forever colored so grey.

Every day I get up and drag myself through the grind without pleasure or passion, only "this is what I must do."  I foolishly yet religiously play the lottery twice a week, believing that nothing but cataclysmic dumb luck could transform my life into a palatable existence.  And every day I worship at the altar of my own personal monomyth of the Ascended Man if only...  If only I keep sober...  If only I exercise...  If only I eat right...  If only I spend well...  If only I force myself through my daily toil...  If only, if only, if only...  If only Meaning and Purpose (and even Love) weren't illusions of the neocortex—evolutionary adaptations, just to eventually be ground down themselves by the inexorable march of time and death.

Feeling Discouraged

I've been doing the best that I can with my caloric intake while really pushing myself at the gym, so I feel as if I should look better than I do.  But then eating "treats" and rich take-out is one of the few avenues I have left to me to buoy my mood and my sobriety, even if it ends up tanking my budget and my diet.  Short of becoming an anorexic ascetic, which would last all of five minutes and inevitably end very badly, what can I do but keep trying through the frustration of my lack of visible progress?

 

How I see myself in my head most of the time:

 

 

How I realize the world actually sees me:

 

I Solemnly Swear

It kills me when I hear anti-gay propaganda talking about "avowed homosexuals."  I can't help but picture some formal ceremony: "I solemnly swear to be the whole queer and nothing but the queer, so help me Gay."  You just know there are some wingnuts out there who honestly believe that such things are going on.  But I assure you that you can file it in the same waste bin as the myths of recruitment, pedophilia and a desire to harm traditional families.