a walking bundle of meds and coping strategies

it's 1am on a workday and i can't fall asleep. i yawn. my eyes are getting blurry. but i've been laying in bed for hours and i can't be at peace. i reckon it's my irresponsible use of caffeine to blunt the medication comedown that i avoid. perhaps it could be the blunting of endogenous melatonin from repeated use of the substance to stun me into unconsciousness. i guess this is the new phase of my life. being drug dependent just to stay functionally alive.

i've longed for the sweet release of death. i'm gifted other things instead. ostensibly everything that goes my way are gifts, one way or another. i'm just not getting the one i truly want. and i give up, if i have to struggle through a sleepless night every now and then, if i have to survive anxiety attacks every now and then, then fuck it, we ball.

truth of the matter is, i've already gotten the sweet release of death already. just not in the form i wanted it to be. essentially, i'm already dead. the person writing this is merely a shell of a man. i don't have a proper self to live for anymore. dreams? aspirations? even just short-term goals? nah. sometime in the past, i already killed myself. i'm just burning through the calendar day by day until i get a proper burial.

there's no love in my heart to speak of. just performative masking of what i've learned others need from me. all the world's indeed a stage, and i've been method acting my way through it. i don't have a proper reality for myself so i play within the fantasy i decide to lose myself into. i can't be bothered to binge watch shit on tv. i spent a fortune on my tv but i barely have use for it because pretending to be someone in another person's life is a more immersive work of fiction.

i'm tired.

i'm fucking tired of having to serve others. but to not do so means to soak in my disgusting flesh and blood. to be in my own head, listen to the many thoughts - none of which offer any comfort. i don't acknowledge any of the inner turmoil because the drugs are doing a great job of quieting my mind.

the scary thing is that i know myself so well and i can tell my authentic self has a slim chance of being loved by others. i don't love myself. yes, i can see good things about myself. hell, i can go as far as to say i'm significantly better than a shit ton of people with what i'm capable of. but love isn't about competence. it's simply having someone who will decide to commit to love, cultivating it, tending to it. while my family and friends are alive, i can count on people that will have love for me. sure there's that. but it's a ticking clock. i've proven time and time again that i'm incapable of keeping the love together. i am my own bag of worms and love is something we ought to show up as our complete selves rather than burdening others with our imperfections. accept imperfections, yes. it's part of it, but the real me is too much of a deadbeat that i definitely won't be able to keep up with how excellent of a first impression or how great of a performative mask i present others.

fuck it. i'm not real. i just have an idea of the right words to say and the right things to do most of the time, fortunately. but if it were up to me, if i were to be real, i don't want to have to interact with others with any deep emotionality. i'm an intellectual. i will talk a person's ear out exploring insights and figuring out the world. i'm the genius autistic interested in bookish pursuits. now the library is no place for human connection. it's a place of silence. that's what i want. that's real to me. but the world i step into every single day? the only way to get around is to have social skills. good thing about it is that skills are things you work on. i don't like working on it. doesn't come naturally to me. but it's something i improve on gradually. it's the fucking adulting that i have to put up with.

the problem with the medication i've been taking is that it fucks up with my emotional quotient. i already have shit social skills, then the drugs degrade it. another problem i have to deal with is the comedown brings anxiety. now i know it's just drug-induced, the anxiety may feel real, but i know it's just the chemicals talking. that won't cut it though. any robust intellectualization of what isn't real loses to lived experience. so the combination of diminished social ability plus the heightened anxiety is a recipe for the most ramble-y blog entry i've written in quite some time.

this perhaps might be the emotional dumping i've been depriving myself.

lately, i've gone high fucking concept with my blog entries. so much so that i try to keep it artistic or have cohesion like i care about a reader. granted, it feels rewarding to write as if i'm an artist. but there's no kidding myself. i'm just an above average writer with a competent command of the english lucky enough to have a laptop and internet connection. even the writer/artist fantasy is a fucking farce. i'm just a guy that types shit and somehow it makes sense. meanwhile, i have real feelings to feel and express, and i keep them bottled because i'm afraid of being vulnerable. because being real has hurt me more times than i ever felt accepted.

no, the world hasn't truly accepted me. and no, i haven't been pushing as hard as i should for the world to accept me. i just pretend to not care. i just pretend to happily march to the beat of my own drum. that's all i do, i just pretend.

so i fucking long for the sweet release of death because continuing this pretend life is a worse punishment than actual death.