The Dark Path

Some days I just can't find anything worth waking up for. It's horribly hard just to admit that, because whenever the thought comes up in my head, I shove it as far away as possible. It's too dark a path to go down, and leads nowhere good. Most of the time I succeed at distracting myself enough to forget this sad fact, and...eliminate the feeling. Of course, most of the time is not all of the time. There's still the matter of those black holes where I continue downwards spiraling, and my life is in free fall.

Free fall is actually the perfect way to describe it. I am no longer standing on solid ground. But, really, did I ever? Haven't I always been this fucked up? It's hard to decipher my emotions as a child and now. They're the same, but surely they are also different? I am not the same person as then, but in a way I am. Everyone evolves from birth to adulthood, but something was put inside me as a child that was not a product of a child's development. What they put inside me, was much more adult than I was, these tearing emotions a child would not understand.

It's probably all very confusing to anyone else, but this realization has brought me closer to a truth I might need to know to move on.

Dreams

Sometimes I have these horribly vivid dreams. While my other dreams are pretty standard as far as dreams go, these few are like HD quality. What these high quality dreams have in common, is that in them, I break down in tears, sobbing. When I wake up, I find myself surprised that I am not actually crying. It takes a while to adjust to the fact that no information from the dream is real.

This dream was particularly gruesome. I dreamt that my cousin and her baby were murdered. Where this come from, I really don't know, but it was horrifying, as can be imagined. I don't remember much else, what I really remember, is how I was confused and broke down as I, for some reason, tried to find out who the killer was. The killer ended up being a stalker ex-boyfriend or something of the sort. Very typical crime plot. There were many inaccuracies in the dream, but of course, I noticed nothing of that while dreaming.

I actually find it quite embarrassing. I can't say exactly why I do, but I just feel silly dreaming something so unnecessary. I love these people, why do I torture myself like that? That is why I decided not to tell anyone. That is, after I told my mom, who is not the best person to tell these things. Bad decision.

But what does this mean? Besides the fact that I read and watch too much crime. How would I interpret these dreams? According to what I have read(with a simple google search) about dream interpretation, death symbolizes change. But there seems to be disagreements about whether that change can be good or bad. Maybe the fact that I only remember nightmares is also something that needs interpreting. Everyone else seems to have nice dreams where magical things happen, and they wake up happy. Mine are only nasty surprises and a general feeling of horror. It just seems unfair.

Reading Rainbow

As a recluse, your list of possible hobbies is not substantial. Reading is one of those hobbies that require little to no human interaction. As my life deteriorated, reading was basically all I did, beside eating, sleeping, and the occasional social media distraction. I would read multiple books a week, and I really felt I was learning, despite the fact that I hadn't been to school for weeks. At one point I borrowed books from three different libraries, which I would not recommend if you are anything like me.

But now even reading has become difficult. I started on three books over a week ago and I haven't gotten anywhere. It's very frustrating, if I can't even read anymore, what am I going to do? When I think about it, that may be why I started this blog. I wasn't functioning and I couldn't read to get my mind off it, so I tried something else. Maybe this will be better for me, as I can actually confront myself instead of blocking out all of these thoughts. A lot of my problems stem from me not talking about it in the first place.

So, yes. This is a good thing. I'll make it so.

Dreaming of another world

My dream for as long as I can remember has been to act. Where did this impossible dream come from? I would in truth be much happier if I could just accept that I was meant to be a wallflower, living a tedious life in a medium-sized town, with I job I barely tolerate, and wait to retire. But I can't. I won't. For the same reason I am still here trying to get healthy and be over with this disorder. I have to dream. To be honest, it's the only thing keeping me.

Acting. The opposite of what I have been doing most of my life. My disorder has kept me from ever putting myself out there, which is basically what acting is. It's safe to say I have little experience. But the few times I dared perform for others, it was exhilerating, I felt a confidence I've never felt in my life. Still, this doesn't mean I am actually good at it. In fact, my biggest fear is that when I finally have the courage to try, I am told that I am terrible and unteachable.

I used to think this dream was absurdly incongruous to my personality. Now I am not so sure. I mean, I have always wanted to be some other person. Who better to be an actor than someone who would rather be someone else? It may not be healthy, but I'm unhealthy as it is.

The trouble is, though, that where I live does not offer any way for me to explore this. To do this, I would have to move to another country, maybe even to the other side of the world. This terrifies me. I am not good at being alone or with someone else in a familiar place, let alone somewhere unknown! There are so many knots to untangle I don't even know where to begin. But I know I have to do something, ACT.

The Recluse

Normal people don't know what it feels like to be terrified of something and craving it at the same time. This is my relationship with other people. Not just some people, all people. The mere thought of going into an abstract group of people living their normal lives, mortifies me. It's as if I'm walking into a beautiful painting and ruining it in the process. I don't belong with these people. I never have. As I have never felt it natural to be around people. I am terrible at social interaction Being in a conversation with me is like watching a youtube video of a skateboarder missing a landing: painful for everyone involved.

I can't say for sure when this all began, or whether it is biological or sociological. Was I born to be this way, or were outside factors responsible? I know nothing is clinically wrong with me, so I guess it's the latter. To get right down to it, I am an involuntary recluse. My capturer is my own mind. My brain just isn't co-operating. The healthy part has hopes and dreams, and it desperately wants to share meaningful things with other people. This is the part I choose to identify with. The other part drags me along by my hair, forcing me to stay home although everything rides on me showing up. It kicks and screams until I have no choice but to surrender, as if I were not man at all, but a mere puppet. This is me, but at the same time it isn't. No wonder people move away from me.

This isn't just hurting me. I can see how it is affecting my family. It is like a tumor eating away at their happiness. It would only be natural to think that maybe their lives would be easier without me in it. Of course I know they'd disagree, they love me no matter what, yada yada. This is no solution, I know this much. I just wish certain things sometimes. Today I lost again to the bad part of me. I'm sitting here drinking rum at 9 am like some fucking sad "alcoholic writer" wannabe. This is not the person I was supposed to be.