I feel lost. I feel hopeless. I feel as if I don’t have anywhere to go or anything I can do. Fifth interview in 3 months and, yet again, I failed to secure the position because I am not technical enough. My options are few-and-far-between. I can’t seem to concentrate at home with other people milling about, and yet I don’t want to be alone. I want someone to wrap me up in their arms, kiss me, comfort me, and make me feel like it’ll be okay soon. I wake up in the morning and I already don’t want to be here (or much of anywhere, really). I don’t want to put clothes on. I don’t want to go to this job that I can’t stand. I don’t want to deal with the over-crowding and dwindling support-systems that modern life depends on. I don’t want to go to work just to earn money to eat more food so I can go to work to make more money to eat more food. I can’t find the reset button. I can’t figure out the code. I can’t figure anyone or anything out. Most days I just want to break-down and cry. I’ve tried making my life something worthwhile, I honestly have. I’ve tried expanding my technical knowledge so that I can do more things that mean more to me, but I keep getting rewarded with backhands and strong words about doing what is required of me. I’m starting to feel like my body is shutting-down on me, like my mind is slowing and becoming atrophied, my muscles and bones becoming heavier and more useless as the fighting wears-on. I honestly don’t remember the last time I felt truly alive or engaged in the world. The whole of existence feels cheap, poorly-made, and brittle. It’s as if this place is like somebody’s sadistic snuff-fantasy. Endlessly running in and out of the same buildings, along the same paths, eating the same foods, talking to the same people, encountering the same problems over and over and over again. Saying that ‘I hate this’ would be redundant; this entire existence is an existence of hate and regression. We’ve strayed quite far from what our dreams tell us.
I’ll tell you what my dreams are made of. They are made of a contented kind of happiness, one unbent and unbroken even unto the breaking of the world. They are made of a kind of happiness that asks questions, doesn’t hesitate to spend a staggering amount of time or effort on a solution or an answer to an equation, and carries even the ‘weakest’ of the herd. It teaches no matter how long it takes for the pupil to master, it carries no grudges, and bears no burdens of its own making… but it’ll carry anyone’s without a second thought. My dreams are made of a utopia that all people could enjoy, where anyone can learn to their hearts’ content (or stop if they don’t), to do what they want (or even if they don’t want to), and where ‘achievement’ and ‘status’ are irrelevant. It’s simply “Hey, how are you today? Do you need any help with what you’re doing today? I don’t have the information you need, but let’s go look for it!”
What irks me is that collectively we can’t seem to ‘get there’, like we’re stuck trying to get up the incline in fourth gear. That the best stuff is maddeningly just a hairsbreadth out of reach, and nobody is able to see it: ‘utopian fantasies’, ‘idealism’, and ‘immature visions’ are all derisive descriptions bandied-about by people who have already given-up, given-in, and bought-into the idea that life is an endless series of air-conditioned, fluorescent-lit rooms populated by people who give less of a fuck than they do. Personally, I think most everyone has stopped giving a fuck. Maybe there were no ‘fucks to give’ in the first place or maybe they ran out a long time ago. I don’t honestly know if I even give a fuck, to be honest. How can I when all I seem to be rewarded with is empty praise, I-O-U-type adulation, and the hollow emptiness that comes right after the celebration candles go out? I am in unfamiliar territory, both literally and figuratively, and the beast that I am doesn’t understand anyone’s anything.
Depression has moved-in and settled into this sullen lump in my chest. I feel like a by-product of depression. For weeks now, I haven’t been able to write very well and I’ve become abusive to most people around me. It’s becoming difficult to control myself. People look at me sometimes and the first thing I want to do is hit them. I have to mentally choke myself, lash my frustration and anger down back to the bottom of this black abyss that’s opened-up in head. Every mistake is a disaster. Every misstep is a potential step towards complete and utter failure. Failure defined by a loss of job, a loss of relationship, and a loss of my own sense of self-worth. It’s difficult for me to find anything worth caring about when I’m like this. I don’t really care about eating, I generally don’t feel like climbing, and all I really end-up doing is staring the paint off a wall like a convict in solitary. This cyclical psychic beating makes me want to disconnect entirely from the possibility of being a participant in the human experience. Then I remember: their world, not mine. The horrific bullshit festival that modern life has turned into feels like a waking-nightmare, a travesty of what life could be if things weren’t so backwards. Or maybe they’re all just backwards and inside-out in my head. I can’t tell the difference anymore.