Fair warning: This post is not for the faint-of-heart.  This is meant as a journal, and I don’t intend to hide anything.  If anything scares you or otherwise makes you concerned, then by all means, leave a comment.  That’s what it’s there for.

I haven’t felt quite myself lately.  I’ve been given to oscillating between extreme anger and bone-crushing sadness.  I find it difficult to get out of bed in the morning, I constantly wonder upon and extrapolate from possibilities of my own accidental demise, and the only thing that I can relate to the word “arousal” lately is “rage”.  I have been consistently and simultaneously depressed and astounded by how others seem to have the greatest of ease in sharing their emotional states, facilitating socialization with their companions, and embracing in close physical contact.  I am beginning to worry that I am unable to touch another living being without violence at this point.  I am constantly finding more and creative ways to effectively shut-down my emotions to get through the day, to hide behind a professionalized mask of neutrality in order to squeak-by the day and return to the safety of my resting space.

I climbed tonight for nearly two hours and I feel as though I nearly blew-out my shoulder muscles.  I will be hurting again in the morning, that’s for sure.  Pissed off another climber with my uncontrolled outbursts and expletives.  I ended-up apologizing to him later, and we shook hands… but I could see it in his eyes: I was not welcome.  It’s very nearly the same almost everywhere I go, even when I am alone.  I feel like a drunken, meandering, delirious vagrant in my own skin.  I sometimes wonder why I even bother going to the climbing gym anymore… I don’t meet anyone there, I just go to climb things and get frustrated.  I suppose at least I’m doing something for my health, but really… why does it matter?  The only person that cares is me, and even that thread is wearing thin.

Drove home in complete silence; I didn’t even turn-on my tablet for music.  I felt thin as Death and just as cold, both in my heart and in my head.  Every ounce of muscle was slackened, every ounce of my brain-power burnt to cinders.  I saw people in the crosswalks in Carlsbad Village holding hands, dancing with each other, touching as couples should… and I grew simultaneously angry and depressed: depressed because I know in my heart-of-hearts that I will eventually be fully alone, and angry because I felt as if I’d been cheated.  It isn’t as if I haven’t been playing by the same social rules as others, it isn’t as if I haven’t tried, and it’s not as if I haven’t tried to make and re-make myself to better appeal to the people I wish would enter my life and remain there… all of which, unfortunately, has added up to a zero-sum.  Arguably, one could almost say a negative-balance, but I think that might be giving too much weight to

I look at other people and I want to tell them my secrets, my shames, my stories.  I think about what their reaction to it all would be; to Everything… and I have to stifle the sobs that are pregnant in my chest.  I curl up in bed at night, clutching my arms around myself, and I think to myself: “These are the only arms that will be there for as long as you live.  This is the only solace you will ever truly have.  Get used to it.”  And every day, I drive or bicycle to work, wondering if today will be the day.  If today will be the day I get hit by that car, if today will be the day I finally get the balls enough to step out in front of a high-speed Amtrak, if today will be the day where I get t-boned by a “Bro” in a giant truck and breathe my last… and I extrapolate from those possibilities within my own head.

What would my death mean?  Who would care?  Will my words that have been passed to others have any further weight after I am gone?  What would life have been like had I not been here in the first place?

My death would be ultimately meaningless, with no effect anywhere except in the wallets of those that have to clean-up after me and tend to what remains of my broken mortal coil.  No one (besides my parents) would care at the end of it all; I would be a memory, a ghost, a whispered curse among other fellow crawlspace-inhabitants.  My words will have been and will ever be ash falling back into the mouth of a dead volcano.  I would be no-one, nowhere.  Had I not been here at all, maybe my parents would have grown old and been middle-class philanthropists, world-travelers, or perhaps even college-graduates… all of which are extinct futures at this point.

All of the above being neither here-nor-there.  Tomorrow is another day, there are still bills that need to be paid, and I’ll be damned if I leave my parents with any kind of bills after I’m gone… back to the grind.

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