Ever wonder if everything you’ve ever done was a mistake? If all the progress you thought you made was an illusion?
I would give anything to finally be rid of this constant rage, this constant feeling like my brain is crawling with ants, the swirl of thoughts so thick that I can scarcely home in on one, this complete inability to focus.
It’s tortured me all my life. Nothing has ever given me more than temporary relief, and most of the time I can’t even get the things that helped the most. Why can’t I just fix it?
I look at the stuff I was writing a few short months ago. It isn’t my work. This is the work of a brilliant person who can put one foot in front of the other. This is the work of someone who thought they had direction. This is the work of a higher consciousness speaking through me. It isn’t me.
I have a hard time feeling any sort of passion any more. I feel like I exist, but I don’t live. I’m a P-zombie living life from the back of a long dark corridor, watching the world on a grainy flickering screen as an observer. It’s been that way most of my life and I miss those short-lived days when I felt like I was really living my life. Even my connection to the church feels like it’s just going through the motions, like a part of me remembers but not the conscious part. There’s no tender feelings for anyone or anything there; I’m like a robot.
Also… This is very hard to admit… I’m still completely unsure about my gender. I don’t feel male, female, genderqueer, null, or anything else. I don’t feel anything but psychoemotional static and I hardly know which way is up, and the so-called professionals who are supposed to help me are so many king’s horses and king’s men.