No more apologies

No more apologies for any perceived erroneous move from a continual striving for respect.

This has been the longest spell of depression I have ever experienced. And I no longer know what I have left that is worth its weight going forward.

What has made it so sustained is that previously, and partly down to being younger, I always maintained some faith in tomorrow being the day when suddenly I would no longer be in a state of perpetual self-demonisation, and this thought itself would lessen the self-demonising, in the knowledge that ‘it’ wasn’t invincible to change.

But since then a perception of the self born from constant self-demonisation feels impossible to escape, because I no longer have the energy, or horizons through which to believe it will go away.

I am fast losing faith in a tomorrow.

I’ve always been in a state of emotional arrrested development. But, on rare occasions, I could at least get to the conversation part on dating apps; I could act in that boysterous (although now red flaggish territory) of impressing women by being loud and silly – all in all I could become alive, and non-ghost.

I used to feel a future.

My own experiences with mental health have always felt like they must look like a self-inflicted joke from the outside. I can’t help but feel like it’s perceived as being my own stupid fault.

After-all, I do have this conviction from childhood that I am the most stupid, wrong, person ever to exist.

I sometimes think people think on behalf of collective energies they do not understand, and sometimes people think other people dead. Seriously, we collectively unconsciously exhale people from life, because they are ill-fitting to any script and they jot out and need to be jotted out.

“They CHOOSE to be that way” , of course.

But there is no choice when your head is literally made up of ‘other peoples’ arguing about whether of not you are justified in your existence.

Sometimes I fantasise about doing something far more destructive than my old technique of smashing a smart phone against a wall. Now I have a car, I often imagine smashing my car against a wall. Because, sometimes prison, condemnation, the taking away of normal liberties, feels like the biggest liberty I could have.

I have been granted a highly disputable freedom, but let’s just call it freedom for now. But I am not me. There is no me. The only me, is ‘fuck you’ and ‘fuck off’ to the overbearing ‘them’ in my head. And how this has grown so tiring in middle age.

I’m not really bothered that my writing will never be venerated, and at best will be noticed for its inability to leave the self. The reason I cannot escape myself is because I am not able to have a self. And I cannot see my life as a ‘creative practitioner’ overcoming this.