I wish I had someone to talk to. For years, I wore out those closest to me by constantly talking through my unhappiness. My mental illness ebbs and flows, but never actually gets better, should be obvious from looking through almost two decades of my blogging. (I didn't even want to write another whinging post after looking through all the endless complaints of my previous entries, but I needed some outlet.) So I never really talk to my friends and family about what's really going on with me anymore, while (of course) simultaneously being resentful that they aren't there to offer support. I had a therapist so that I had one person to actually "see" behind the façade to what my life actually is, but I've stopped seeing her for a combination of reasons and wasn't able to even get any callbacks when I tried to find another one.
I know it's mostly biochemical, but I don't really have much in my mental arsenal to counter the narrative. Instead I have a lifetime of emotional baggage weighing me down like millstones tied around my psyche. Today it started off with superficial shit: I've been working so hard for so long on my weight – and I've lost 40 pounds and added a little bit of muscle – but I'm still obese and so disgusted by what I see in the mirror. Then I got haircut, but I can't find anyone to cut my hair who will take the time & effort my wonky hair requires. I have so little self-esteem to cling to that a bad haircut pretty much destroys it.
But it was lust, fantasy and a bitter longing for the intimacy I've never been able to achieve that really finished me off. My unfulfilled dreams litter my existence like dead gods in a decaying cosmos, eclipsing the path to making peace with my life of empty mediocrity. It started with my obsessive fixation on an extremely hot man at the gym, trying to force myself not to be a creep and stare with obvious desire. Then there was adorable policeman in the barbershop waiting room. He flashed me a wide smile that I actually managed to return instead of getting stymied by my socially-awkward introvert's reflexive retreat from eye contact. That meaningless exchange of polite acknowledgement completely set me off into achingly fantasizing scenarios where we connected, leaving me bitter and hollow over reality versus the stories I construct in my head. In addition to the pathetic pathos of unbridled, unrequited yearning, what guts me is that I'm about a decade too old for the guy at the gym and probably two decades too old for Officer Hottie. It's all just too late and my time – and hope – has run out. Sorry not a winner. Better luck next life.
