23:23. Sitting on the couch, room dark, empty plate, gin-tonic glass with only some leftover ice melting away. Sitting on the couch, legs on the table, typing fuck knows why, fuck knows what. Could put on some music, some series, a fell-good movie. Numb out the feeling of utter loneliness and self-loathing, occupy my conscious mind, keep that shit down for my subconsciousness to boil them down into even more depressing thoughts.
It’s miserable being alone with myself, being trapped by my own mental and behavioral loops, deadlocks, whatever you call them. I guess part of it is lazyness, not typical lazyness but lazyness to actually do something, before you reach the rock bottom of your mental struggle. Why would you take action. This is your suffering, certainly influenced by outside influence, but for the most part carefully custom-made and adjusted just for you. By you, for you. It’s the shit you made for yourself, the shit you built your habits around, the shit that makes your life miserable. You can leave, you can climb out, leave the hole full of miserable things and stroll just as far away as you want. Next minute, next hour, next week, next month, sooner or later you’ll be back. Maybe now you just sit at the side, only putting your leg into the miserable water, but as much as it is melting away the skin from your legs, it’s at least familiar. It’s you.
I should get my life under control. The most fucked up joke in my life (after my stuttering) is that from outside I have some parts perfectly under control. School, university, bachelors degree, masters degree, moved abroad, renting a nice flat, no debt, putting some money into savings, traveling, some friends, supporting family, chill and stable job (although I’m fucking wasting my time there but cannot make myself to quit; back to that miserable hole you dig for yourself I guess). Still, most times I’m on the passenger seat of my own life, but nobody is at the steering wheel. Hoping the car continues to drive itself in autopilot, it seems to drive itself well since years.
The fucking irony is, I more or less see the full picture, how I’m doing the same shit circles every day, every month, every year. Still, doing it every day, every month, every year.
At least something changes, some thanks to friends, some thanks to family, some thanks to therapists. Still something is missing, I hope I find it. I hope I can grow up to be that something.
It’s 00:11, I should be in bed since 2 hours to get enough sleep for my brain to function at work on Monday. Would also be nice no to be fucking alone.