Here's To Hope
Nothing new to report. My visit with my psychiatrist last Wednesday was uneventful. Nothing's happened since then. On the computer front, the OpenBSD install I tried failed because I'm using unsupported hardware. The lesson I learned here is that just because an OS says it runs on x86, it doesn't mean that it will run on my x86. Right now I can't afford to purchase any different hardware. Linux does support my hardware, though, so I'm going to give that a try and see how far I get.
I had to visit my endocrinologist last Thursday to check up on my diabetes. They checked my weight, and I found out that I balooned up to 288 lbs. Lots of famous people died right after they reached a weight they never attained before. I wonder if I'll be one of them. When I went in to see my doctor, I told him the truth -- as everyone should with their own doctors -- that I wasn't doing a goddamn thing about my diabetes. I wasn't doing those annoying finger sticks, I wasn't taking my medication, I wasn't following any kind of diet, and I certainly wasn't exercising. He seemed to have a sense of humor about it, though -- he asked me, "How long do you want to live?" It would have really been funny if I gave him the true answer to that, which is, "I don't want to live."
I always get antsy around any medical professionals who have no background or training in mental health, or at least in some sort of sensitivity training. Those without special training tend to have a hard time believing that depression is no joke, and that it's not something I can just "snap out" of. I really don't give a shit. Everytime I go to sleep, I hope I never wake up again. Let's hope tonight's the night.
Saturday, March 20, 2004
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
The Prom
I feel like shit. I even feel nauseous. My eyes are glazed over. My cognitive faculties are barely enough to write down the thoughts I have in an organized fashion. I have to leave in a few minutes to see my psychiatrist. I don’t even want to leave my apartment, let alone see anybody. Everything I need, or at least everything I think I need, is right here. I can get myself into a nice groove just staying right where I am, sheltering myself from all the noxious influences of the outside world.
In one of my rare excursions into civilization, on Monday I had to go to a barbershop and get my hair cut. By the end of the trip, I wanted to disembowel myself. It wasn’t the barber’s fault. At least, not directly. The place I go to is pretty good for socially anxious individuals. I just go in, get a haircut, pay for it, and then leave. No fuss, no muss. No worrying about having to participate in some forced conversation with a person I could care less about. No toiling through awkward moments when I’m trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to say. I know -- this is the exact opposite of what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm supposed to be seizing this "opportunity" to "practice" my interpersonal and conversational skills so that I can "overcome" my shyness, and therefore, my depression. Why is it, then, that I feel like being boiled in oil is more rewarding than doing any of those things?
The haircut itself was great. The torture came from the television set that was right next to me. In case I haven't mentioned this before, I hate TV and I avoid watching it like the plague. Especially network television. As luck would have it, the TV in the barbershop was tuned into one of those brain-dead sitcoms that make one want to vomit more than laugh. Obviously, I didn't care to find out what the name of the show was. Unfortunately, what was most painful for me was not the sitcom's inanity but its subject matter. The situation was about some teenagers trying to ask each other out to their high school prom. I would have probably thought it was pretty funny if I wasn't busy trying to leap outside of my body. Everything about it was sheer torture. The kid finally getting the courage to ask the girl out was torture. The girl's excitement at being asked out was torture. If there's any single reason that makes me want to kill myself more than anything else does, it's that I never went to my own high school prom. Not only that, but I never did a thing about asking anyone to go, and I haven't changed one bit since then. This makes me feel like a permanent freak that has absolutely no justification for living. There's no recourse in society for a guy like me. I suppose being too shy to approach a member of the opposite sex is not all that uncommon. But who the fuck stays that way up until they're thirty? Except for people who've taken vows of celibacy, I don't know of anyone. One would think that even the shiest guy would have made some kind of progress towards overcoming his shyness by then, even if it was by accident. Heterosexual men aren't supposed to have their hands held when it comes to shit like this. In my experience, if I do, my sexuality is questioned and my peers ostracize me. Even what I'm doing now makes me want to commit suicide. You would think that instead of bitching about this, I would just shut up and do something about it. I don't know. I guess I just don't understand life.
I feel like shit. I even feel nauseous. My eyes are glazed over. My cognitive faculties are barely enough to write down the thoughts I have in an organized fashion. I have to leave in a few minutes to see my psychiatrist. I don’t even want to leave my apartment, let alone see anybody. Everything I need, or at least everything I think I need, is right here. I can get myself into a nice groove just staying right where I am, sheltering myself from all the noxious influences of the outside world.
In one of my rare excursions into civilization, on Monday I had to go to a barbershop and get my hair cut. By the end of the trip, I wanted to disembowel myself. It wasn’t the barber’s fault. At least, not directly. The place I go to is pretty good for socially anxious individuals. I just go in, get a haircut, pay for it, and then leave. No fuss, no muss. No worrying about having to participate in some forced conversation with a person I could care less about. No toiling through awkward moments when I’m trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to say. I know -- this is the exact opposite of what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm supposed to be seizing this "opportunity" to "practice" my interpersonal and conversational skills so that I can "overcome" my shyness, and therefore, my depression. Why is it, then, that I feel like being boiled in oil is more rewarding than doing any of those things?
The haircut itself was great. The torture came from the television set that was right next to me. In case I haven't mentioned this before, I hate TV and I avoid watching it like the plague. Especially network television. As luck would have it, the TV in the barbershop was tuned into one of those brain-dead sitcoms that make one want to vomit more than laugh. Obviously, I didn't care to find out what the name of the show was. Unfortunately, what was most painful for me was not the sitcom's inanity but its subject matter. The situation was about some teenagers trying to ask each other out to their high school prom. I would have probably thought it was pretty funny if I wasn't busy trying to leap outside of my body. Everything about it was sheer torture. The kid finally getting the courage to ask the girl out was torture. The girl's excitement at being asked out was torture. If there's any single reason that makes me want to kill myself more than anything else does, it's that I never went to my own high school prom. Not only that, but I never did a thing about asking anyone to go, and I haven't changed one bit since then. This makes me feel like a permanent freak that has absolutely no justification for living. There's no recourse in society for a guy like me. I suppose being too shy to approach a member of the opposite sex is not all that uncommon. But who the fuck stays that way up until they're thirty? Except for people who've taken vows of celibacy, I don't know of anyone. One would think that even the shiest guy would have made some kind of progress towards overcoming his shyness by then, even if it was by accident. Heterosexual men aren't supposed to have their hands held when it comes to shit like this. In my experience, if I do, my sexuality is questioned and my peers ostracize me. Even what I'm doing now makes me want to commit suicide. You would think that instead of bitching about this, I would just shut up and do something about it. I don't know. I guess I just don't understand life.
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Carrying the One
I've been feeling sick recently, so I haven't been able to write as much as I've liked. I haven't even had enough time to read my own blog to respond to any comments, e-mail, or anything else. The truth is that I've been too embarrassed to write. It's not because I'm afraid other people might be mean to me, but because I'm afraid of revealing my utter stupidity! I did one of those things where you spend a really long time trying to solve a particular problem (in my case, a week), but when you find out the solution to your problem, it only takes about half-a-second to execute, and you realize you shouldn't have spent nearly as much time trying to figure it out as you did. In other words, it's like taking a week to figure out that you made a mistake adding two numbers because you forgot to carry the one. I made the operating-system equivalent of that mistake. I guess my fear of being dumb is stronger than my fear of being weak. (It's funny -- if I spent the entire week doing nothing except stare into space, I would have no reservations about writing about that.)
Crying
Other things... I heard from somewhere that people who have really deep-seated anger problems can participate in special therapy groups where they get the opportunity to express their emotions safely. For example, they get these foam bats or pillows and they get to bang on things with them and scream if they want. What if a person has deep-seated sadness problems? I can understand a person being so angry that he or she wants to scream his lungs out, but what if he has uncontrollable urges to cry his eyes out? Sometimes, more than anything, all I want to do is roll up into a ball and cry violently.... not one of those cries where I'm just naturally sad about something, but a cry that's so painful that it's the end of the world. Sometimes I just want to cry uncontrollably and not care about how loud I'm crying and not want to bother explaining to anyone else why I'm crying. Sometimes I want to cry so hard that taking out the time and effort to specify and elucidate my thoughts would take me too much out of the experience of crying. I just want to cry for the sake of crying. That's irrational, isn't it? If I did something to fix the situation that made me want to cry in the first place, then that would seem to be more helpful than crying, wouldn't it? Then why would I rather cry than doing anything else?
I've been feeling sick recently, so I haven't been able to write as much as I've liked. I haven't even had enough time to read my own blog to respond to any comments, e-mail, or anything else. The truth is that I've been too embarrassed to write. It's not because I'm afraid other people might be mean to me, but because I'm afraid of revealing my utter stupidity! I did one of those things where you spend a really long time trying to solve a particular problem (in my case, a week), but when you find out the solution to your problem, it only takes about half-a-second to execute, and you realize you shouldn't have spent nearly as much time trying to figure it out as you did. In other words, it's like taking a week to figure out that you made a mistake adding two numbers because you forgot to carry the one. I made the operating-system equivalent of that mistake. I guess my fear of being dumb is stronger than my fear of being weak. (It's funny -- if I spent the entire week doing nothing except stare into space, I would have no reservations about writing about that.)
Crying
Other things... I heard from somewhere that people who have really deep-seated anger problems can participate in special therapy groups where they get the opportunity to express their emotions safely. For example, they get these foam bats or pillows and they get to bang on things with them and scream if they want. What if a person has deep-seated sadness problems? I can understand a person being so angry that he or she wants to scream his lungs out, but what if he has uncontrollable urges to cry his eyes out? Sometimes, more than anything, all I want to do is roll up into a ball and cry violently.... not one of those cries where I'm just naturally sad about something, but a cry that's so painful that it's the end of the world. Sometimes I just want to cry uncontrollably and not care about how loud I'm crying and not want to bother explaining to anyone else why I'm crying. Sometimes I want to cry so hard that taking out the time and effort to specify and elucidate my thoughts would take me too much out of the experience of crying. I just want to cry for the sake of crying. That's irrational, isn't it? If I did something to fix the situation that made me want to cry in the first place, then that would seem to be more helpful than crying, wouldn't it? Then why would I rather cry than doing anything else?
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