Bad Days

I wake up in the morning and before I even open my eyes, there it is. That weight laced with desperation. That sinking feeling that tells me nothing is ever going to get better and I might as well just give up now. Give up at what, I’m not really sure. Not that it matters.

I contemplate actually opening my eyes. But what is the point of that? Why would I want to see things better? Smarter just to lay here and try my best not to listen. And definitely not see, think. Anything. Maybe I can go back to sleep. It’s only 5:15am. Plenty of time to sink back in.

My brain does not cooperate. My own worst enemy. Why? Trying to not think ends up worse than thinking. Pushing away the thoughts that at first sneak around behind and then try to cover my head, soon begin simply jabbing at my gut and my thighs. Prodding sharply. I give in and acknowledge them. And then they cover me up.

Nothing will ever get any better. In fact, it’s already getting worse. It doesn’t matter what I could ever try to do. Ever. All the projects I get excited about and then plan. All the projects that I hope will somehow make a difference in someone’s life. They amount to nothing. Nothing. And no one cares. And why should they? I mean, really? Who am I to try and do anything, anyway? I’m just one more person in the world that thinks farther than they can actually reach. But realizes it too late to save themselves the public embarrassment.

I’m beginning to suffocate. If I don’t open my eyes, I’ll die.

What do I think I’m doing with my life? I should go back to school. I should want to go back to school. I should go get a regular job where I drive to an office and see normal people that do work-type things and drink coffee. I should want to want a regular job. I should make sure I have health care. I should have an IRA and heavy savings accounts. I should take vacations twice a year for 3.5 days each and be happy that I have an office to go back to. I should stop trying to make something out of nothing and give it up already. I’m not really a business owner. I’m not really a project director or designer or good at talking with clients or anything to do with what I am supposed to do. My work is crap. Total crap. No one wants to see it. No one likes it. I could never be one of the people that are talked about later as someone that contributed to something great or amazing or worthwhile because everything I do is so mediocre and inconsequential. Trying to create another place for people to get together online. Who the fuck cares? The code is crap. The design is crap. It won’t ever get done. If it does get done, it will suck and no one will want to be a part of it anyway. I’m not painting anymore but if I did, no one would buy them. And if I tried to paint again, I wouldn’t be able to. I think I’ve lost whatever talent I had before.

If I don’t get out of bed, I will never get out again.

I have spots on my arm that haven’t healed in over 6 months. I think I scratch them when I’m sleeping or nervous. I don’t know why they don’t heal. What is wrong with me? People notice them and I can see in their eyes how ugly I am. Hideous and weird. And fat. So, so fat. And my writing sucks. I write a blog that is just like a million other ones. And I write things that are of no importance to anyone. And the people that do write me, I can’t even answer. At least, not all of them. So many that I can’t even write back. So many people that need help and want someone to hear them and tell them that they are OK. And they are OK. I just don’t have the time to tell them that. I’m such a failure. I should be writing them all back so they know. But who do I think I am writing anyone? What could I possibly have to say that would make a difference? I don’t really know anything. I have no good advice. I don’t know ANYTHING. I only know what I’ve gone through and half the time, it makes no sense to me. We’re never going to have enough money. Rent will be due and we’ll be late. Projects are due and we are late. The electricity will get turned off if we don’t make it by 5pm. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t pay the bills. Can’t breathe.

In the shower I try to wash it all away. But I could scrub for hours and it wouldn’t work. Hours. There is just too much. Somehow, I’m supposed to go downstairs and begin my day and do stuff. Stuff that doesn’t matter and that I suck at.