anger_frog

Another lonely, pointless night...

I actually managed to get drunk enough to feel good about myself last night, and I was in a surprisingly positive mood for at least an hour. Then my drunking buddies killed my buzz with a few words, bringing about new lows. Everytime I go out, I come home feeling more and more depressed, but staying out home just makes me miserable as well. I need a third option.

When I woke up today, I still felt terrible about breathing and I went back to sleep with hopes that my mental state would be banished with some generous helpings of narcolepsy. No such luck, as I woke up three hours ago feeling about the same. I couldn't coax my body to sleep anymore, and I noticed a new invite from Drunk Girl on my IM left around 8ish. It didn't specify which bar so I drove past all the ones they've taken me to without any luck. I know of one that they would likely have gone to on a Friday night, but I have no idea where to find it. So here I am now.

I'm seriously going to give up drinking for good now. I haven't felt any positive effects from it in a very long time, and the negatives seem to be growing in influence every time I partake. I suppose that's a good thing, since you need at least some incentive to form a habit of it.

I've been perusing some of my past depression journal entries and I think I've been unclear on some things. For starters, while I do appreciate the sentiment, I know that I have reasons to live, but what I was trying to say is that I have no reasons to want to live. We all have reasons to live, of course, as we compile dependents and responsibilities throughout the course of our lives. As the old Asian gem puts it (paraphrased since I cannot recall the exact wording), "Death is light as a feather, Duty is heavy as a mountain." Guilt over failing those who depend on my actions and responsibilities keeps me going, but I fear that is my sole motivation.

I keep finding myself envying the materialistic man. The one who can find happiness in the acquisition of objects. We constantly criticize him as shallow and misanthropic, but in turn I find the simplicity of his life to be compelling. The only thing that can make him happy are things that potentially attainable by anyone. Not only are the material possessions that fill him with purpose attainable, but they are faithful, trustworthy, relatable, and permanent. Cars never lie to you, motorcycles don't cheat on you, houses don't cast you aside when they get bored, and electronics never claimed to love you in the first place. We claim to be his moral superior by placing our trust and hearts in the hands of others; how can the gambler be superior to the one who prefers to invest wisely?

I wish I was a shallow bastard. Life is so easy when you treat people like commodities and retain all the control in your life. I can't stop wondering if my problems are a result of wanting to play the part of the compassionate human when I was originally slated to play the slick villain. Granted, I'm neither a saint nor a doormat, but I keep finding myself as a 5th wheel in my own life because I keep ignoring the selfish options.

Am I expecting too much of people? Every little extra effort I invest in them is met with diminishing returns, with some amazed compliment on how nice or loyal I am as a handful of salt added to the knife wound. The few people I've met that I felt really cared as much as I did gave it up after a short period of time; either they became jaded or just never really meant it in the first place. Why can't I follow their example?

This is world designed as a playground for the bastards and sociopaths. I know this. I have always known this. And yet I keep playing this stupid martyr bit over and over, and I always hit my cues and recite my lines when it comes to act surprised yet again. The only thing I have to show for my actions is a stack of condolences and reassurances. I've met a lot of people who need pity like it was oxygen or water. I never understood them, since it has always tasted bitter and stale to me.

I have this theory that depression is not a chemical imbalance or unresolved issue so much as its the realization that you are living in a world where your needs will never be met. The pills help some people because a chemical stupor is enough for some. Therapy helps because there are some who are willing to compromise despite having nothing left to sacrifice. Suicide works because there are some who can no longer feel the anger and hatred that would allow them to stick around and wait until those who turn the screws finally get the same. The first two have never had any impact on the way I feel, and the third option I have always found tasteless and cowardly. I live because there are a lot of nasty people who would find pleasure in my demise. I live because my continued existence brings pain and discomfort to some of the worthless bastards I've had the unfortunate displeasure to meet and confront. I live because despite the ingratitude, there are those who need me around to perform certain tasks and errands that allow them to be happy and healthy. But it isn't a life. It's an existence. Perhaps I envy the possessions of the materialist, because they are unaware that they are merely tools for the enjoyment of another.

I laughed aloud just now, because I realized that I indirectly called myself a tool. I suppose I am.

I realized last night that the best I can do for myself in the past couple years is mindless distraction. I have been suffering from depression for well over a decade, but I remember that some things made me happy. But now, it all seems either boring or distracting; the only thing left tested under this theory is sex. I had it a few weeks ago in a one-night stand; my partner's skills did not live up to her bravado. Considering how much rust my game has accumulated over my excruiatingly long period of celibacy, you'd have to imagine how bad someone would have to be in bed for me to notice. I never could stand one-nighters anyway, as I always wind up with someone who has no idea what they are doing. But in light of last night's revelations, I can't help but wonder if the unpleasantness of the situation was in some part shaded by my inability to feel joy. "Sex is like pizza. Even when it's bad pizza, it's still pizza." I've been going off the notion that I could find joy through sexuality if I found a partner that I was compatible with, but now I think that my bad luck in finding that certain woman is brought about by my subconcious wanting to protect me from being disappointed in the last thing that might turn my mindset back around to the lighter side. Could it be that swearing off sex voluntarily in order to keep lying to myself be better than taking a gamble on the last act that I remembered being a source of happiness and relaxation? After all, there is going to be some level of disappointment anyway, considering that it would have to be nothing short of spectacular in order to be worth all the trouble I've endured in finding it. There is no Hollywood movie or professional boxing match that can match the hype that permanently manifests around the subject of sex. Hell, the fact that I'm writing this journal entry on a pay site full of naked women should attest to that.

Another interesting thought: I joined this site two months before my last relationship ended (where my current state of life began), and I never really invested much in my journal until it ended. All my journals entries here are the testament of a person who never existed until he lost the ability to feel. A few people on my friends list have met me in real life; would they recognize me if I wasn't depressed or directionless? Would whatever qualities that bring your interest here disappear if I felt alive again? No one who knew me before is around in my life outside my own family, but I've always been distanced from them my entire life; I'm a stranger who runs errands and receives Christmas cards. There is no one in my life who can remember who I used to be. No one who knows me now knows that I'm nothing more than the ghost of a better life. Perhaps between the events of birth and death, we live more than one life.