Comfort in Calvary
The thing with depression and anxiety is that you always feel finished. I’ve felt like I was finished more often than not since I’ve been seventeen. The high points come in my life when I prove myself wrong. The low points are kind of the status quo. Feeling like I'm counted out. Feeling like I'm inadequate. Feeling like I've fucked up irrevocably. Perfectionism. Awfulizing. Agonizing over everything I do and will do and have ever done. Cringing.
Sometimes I don't feel like I'm living life so much as being crucified by it.
That's why I kind of admire those dark triad sociopaths out there, those unrepentant narcissists. They don't get shook. Every failure isn't their fault. If fact, none of their failures are their fault. They're unflappable. Delusional, but unflappable. And what's so wrong with a bit of delusion? We are what we perceive, after all, so why not perceive some shit that shines a positive light on yourself and your fragile ego.
But that’s what I’m up against: this feeling of finished-ness.
I get high to get by, then I feel bad and I worry about how much I get high when I'm sober, which then leads me to getting high again. And so on ad infinitum.
My kid is one, which is beautiful. We celebrated yesterday with friends and family. It was wonderful. He's a little cutie.
But the battle rages on with myself, regardless of the external circumstances of my life. Maybe this is a good thing. It's like regardless of what happens, I'll still have this internal calvary to contend with. Which I guess such constancy provides a sort of personal comfort amidst a world of constant change. It's like a security blanket that's on fire and the fires are hell, but I can always retreat into the flames. It's still a blanket. We will always choose the devil we know. We've all got Stockholm Syndrome, to a certain extent. I didn't choose this shit. I didn't ask to be this fucked up. And sure, the deck has been stacked for me egregiously (white, privileged, male, athletic, reasonably attractive), but damn this mental illness stuff will really fuck with you, will really suck the joy right the fuck out of your time here on earth.
All of that being said, sometimes I still wonder if I'm choosing misery.