Fuck It All

I fucking hate being alive! The reason I would never reproduce isn't because I'm gay. It's because I would never have the fucking hubris to bring a consciousness into existence so that it can deal with this life that I despise. I wouldn't be responsible for bringing anything—not even a cat or a dog—into such a world of suffering.

After a maddening fifty minutes of fighting traffic on the fucking freeway Friday afternoon and almost having a conniption, I got to my therapist appointment thirty minutes late. In the little time we have left, she tells me that most other people are unhappy (which any fucking first year psych student could tell you is one of the worst fucking things you can tell a depressed person, particularly one in crisis). Fucking hell! Then why do all these breeders and half the queers have kids? To share the fucking joy?

I was in college before I finally realized that other people were actually glad that they were born and were alive, not thoroughly pissed off about it like I was. I never understood why someone would actually thank their parents for the "gift" of life! (I've always looked at it as kind of a curse myself.) I can even remember exactly where and when I had this realization. I was in the Central Campus swimming pool my freshman year, and my friend said to me, "I can't imagine ever being so depressed that I would even think about killing myself." And I thought, "Well shit! It takes most of my energy most of the time to keep from blowing my fucking brains out."

"Fuck this and fuck that!
Fuck it all and fuck a fucking brat!
She don't wanna baby that looks like that!
I don't wanna baby that looks like that!
—The Sex Pistols, "Bodies"

Romance Is Just Another Narcotics Fix

I've been playing this computer game called Fable. It's your standard fantasy, sword-and-sorcery RPG. But in it your character can get married, and the rather inclusive designers even let your character (a man) marry another man. I was at a point in the game recently where I could do this. I courted one of the student's from Hero Academy and flirted with him and gave him gifts. He responded and said sweet things, "I'd like to get to know you better...if you know what I mean" and "We're good mates, aren't we?" I gave him a ring and then led him across the game map (protecting him from enemies and monsters all the while) to a house I'd bought for us. We even had a wedding night (with sound, but no video). After all of this, I realized that this is absolutely the most fucking romance I've had in years!

But you know what else I realized? I'm not looking for love to round out my existence. My life is an empty hole. No one could fill it up. I could only drag them down in there with me. (Just ask my ex.) I only want romance and tender gallantries as one more dopamine-producing physical pleasure to get me through the day. Love—real love, not infatuation (a lot of people confuse the two)—is a great deal of work, which is why a lot of people "fear intimacy." What they really fear is working at love and find it easier to move on once the buzz is gone. Personally, I doubt I'm up to the challenge, seeing how I've failed every challenge I've ever attempted in my life.

"Glad you're on an upswing"

That's a quote from a sweet comment from a lovely woman whom I'm lucky to call a friend (if this entry doesn't alienate her). But it also comes right to the point, doesn't it? I'm always on an upswing. Or a downswing. But I never get anything sorted out, do I? To quote another friend: "I've heard it all before." I'm always going round and round in circles as if I've got one foot staked in the ground. I'm never going to be settled! I've been working, pushing, struggling uphill all the way for over twenty years just to finally reach a point where I feel leveled out. And it hasn't happened yet. It will never fucking happen!

"I know, Charlie Brown. You want to be happy."
"Oh no! I just don't want to be unhappy."
—Linus & Charlie Brown, Peanuts

I'm pretty sure I'd be dead by now if it weren't for my fucking family. I can't die by my own hand. In November of 2002 I took thirty Zanax and thirty Restoril. I lost four days of my life. (I literally have no memory of them and pieced everything together after the fact.) I lost my job, went into convulsions and got into a car accident, but I didn't die. (Or hurt anyone else, thank God!) The stupid thing is how bad I feel about attempting to take my own life, especially since I came so damn close to pulling it off. I will never be self-destructive again. I do it for my family, primarily because it would destroy my mother and sister. So I have to struggle and maintain and keep together some semblance of self-sufficiency all alone, only so that I can continue as a two-dimensional backdrop in other people's lives. And yet people have the fucking gall to be exasperated with me because I'm still an addict? Fuck you!

"now that i know that i'm breaking to pieces i'll pull out my heart and i'll feed it to anyone...it's easier for me to get closer to heaven than ever feel whole again"
—Robert Smith of The Cure, "Disintegration"