Apparently, my blog is really depressing. However, Rob tells me it also feels honest. So I don't care if it's depressing! I can easily see how this could all be read as whining and just a pathetic orgy of me feeling sorry for myself. Well . . . thats bullshit. Muscle-jerking panic attacks, suicide fantasies, being unwilling to get out of bed for days at a time, and (almost) inexplicable outbursts of anger are not healthy. You would think that after 15 years of self-analyzation in an attempt to be more accepted and "normal" and, for God's sake, successful!, would eliminate any stuff that was the product of simple laziness or supposed childhood trauma(school-related, not family related). Having the intense desire to slice-up my wrists in protest of this all failure being seen as a result of my being stupid or lazy is, again, NOT healthy!

There. I feel temporarily vindicated against the voices in my head. Aren't these blog things great!

Hey, go check out Eve and Korinne on my blog roll. They're special.

So my open-mic feature went well. I was almost completely unprepared, but it didn't matter, because there were only five people there. I'm not kidding! And they had all heard my stuff before! I would have felt humiliated if it hadn't felt so appropriate. And it felt appropriate because it was the opposite of all my imaginings, my dreamings, my desires.

The question I asked myself then is same I'm asking right now:
What am I doing here? . . . now there's a loaded question.

Last night Heather asked me "What do you need to be happy?" After mulling this over for awhile, I realized I truly don't know. My brain fires in such a way that I cannot even conceive of how to be happy (happy in a life-encompassing sense, not in a moments-of-joy sense).

I have no sense of purpose. And as my medication seems to have gone into total failure, this is the crux: I have no belief that I will actually be able to accomplish anything I put effort into. To my mind, I am a perpetual failure, and all of my dreams are impossible - a fool's notion, a blind person's picture.

This fatalism is not nihilism - because it leaves me in a despair, a desparation, that results in my wanting to simply exist as a being of love - because nothing else matters. Yet even this I cannot acheive. You wouldn't believe the number of people I wish I could wrap my arms around and bestow upon a discovery of complete acceptance and truth in love - a love placed in me by God and only truly reflected in me by an imitation of Christ.
But, I can't do this. My arms do not have that power, nor does any one moment hold such gravity. And I'm losing belief that people can change anymore. I see the same pain and evil and stupidity over and over again. It's in me , and it's all around me. Especially in Arkansas. If I cannot do what I wish I could do, then all that is left is empty, raw, existance. If life simply pushes and pulls and I carry no weight, then all I have is a smile, a hug, a sadness . . . and if I still have dreams (regardless of whether I believe in them or not), a hope.

Hope is what remains when belief fails.

This is my brain. This my DNA. And I lay all of this open to you in desperation, and in hope.


Does that sound too pithy?
I thought so.