Pegasus, Atypical Disaster, thank you both for giving enough of a damn to entertain my useless whining. I wish I knew what to say in response, though.

Didn't get to sleep until past three, last night. All I've eaten today were two Kit-Kats I took from my grandpa's stash. My grandfather has a candy stash. Yeah, at least my personal life is incredulously amusing. So, I'm bitter, hungry, tired, and twitching with repressed anger. Yesterday was my last day at work. Which I had to leave early from. They sent me home, because I was collapsing. I didn't tell them why, but it's psychological. Yes, I was falling over, experiencing vertigo, and nearly killed myself on the interstate, because I'm so unbelievably repressed it's causing a physical breakdown. Like an X-Box melting, instead of just having the decency to simply RROD. I have some interviews, but not having a job, that voice inside my head that's screaming, almost demonically, that I am just not good enough, and the fear of staying broke, continued boredom, and the depression of unemployment is gnawing on my mind. It's parasitic, really. My insanity is infecting me, feeding on me, needing me, and killing me, all at the same time.

Am I insane or just insecure? At this point, the answer is beyond me. My judgment has been proven flawed beyond reason and, therefore, I haven't trusted it in a very long time. While I'm quoting Green Day, I think it's hysterical that I'm whining about nothing, but to me, it's everything. I've come to the conclusion that the things I focus and obsess on are such, because I'm so afraid of the things that are legitimate issues, I'm simply not capable of confronting. So, I push them to the back of my mind, where they fester, but I focus on ridiculous things, giving them the panic, distress, and priority that the others deserve, but I'm not capable of giving. I'm seventy thousand dollars in debt, losing my teeth, have no insurance, unemployed, unable to complete my college enrollment, severely mentally ill, and on a roaring rampage of self-destruction that will, more than likely, end with suicide. I... I... I just can't deal with these things. They feed my insecurity, destroy my self-worth, and destroy my hope. I haven't felt hope in a long time. I don't want to, actually. Hope is a self-destruction emotion. One I need to stay away from. Hope leads to persistence, persistence leads to determination, determination leads to obsession, obsession leads to failure, failure leads to suffering. Haven't I suffered enough? Apparently, not. I really can't remember a time where I was happy. There have been a few brief moments of content acceptance, but I just... want to be happy.

The anger is burning off the nerves in the base of my neck, so, I know there are things bothering me. Things that I deny. Things that I repress. Things I refuse to acknowledge. Why? No one else will acknowledge me. Why the Hell should I? I know that I shouldn't feel as I do. I know that these feelings are irrational and born from an illness. I know that these feelings are not real. I know that I have no right or reason to feel this way. I do, though. I still feel this way. I still feel all the myriad, kaleidoscopic, paradoxical, contradictory, onslaughts of emotion that define Borderline Personality Disorder. Nothing changes that. No amount of self-hatred, willful denial, or perseverance can alter the simply reality that will always remain: I feel. I feel everything and yet, I feel nothing.

Bear with me, for this metaphor. Imagine an ocean. An ocean amidst a hurricane. Yet, the surface is frozen solid. Underneath, the water is boiling. Atop, an inferno of flames in multiple colors and hues. The skies raining; torrents of bullet-fast precipitation falling from the sky. The sky is black, but the moon presents itself perfectly. The sun is lost. That is how I perceive my soul to appear. Contradiction is one of my core traits. A friend of mine, here at PC, notes that coincidences surround his/her life.

I think irony is what presents itself in my life. From my philosophy, to my actions and behavior, to even my name, I see irony. My first name means "God is gracious". Do you really believe I have been so graciously delivered through the hands of a God I no longer believe in? That the indescribable pain present in my life and this horrendous cycle of misery and destruction can really be described as "gracious"? It's like etymology gave me a parenthetical *****-slap. My surname translates to "Keeper of the Wolf". I couldn’t’ stop laughing the first time I read that. How absurdly appropriate for a person whose entire life revolves caging the animal within himself? Yes, that’s how I feel. An animal. That’s the best description for me, really. An animal that once had dreams of being a knight in shining armor. Like a drunkard in the gutter, gazing at the stars, and wishing to be a productive member of society in some facet or form. All I see is Darkness. I’m surrounded by it. I’m overwhelmed by it. Someone I once loved told me that "(They) have never met anyone… so full of Light, but who could see only Darkness." When I mentioned that to the person, they refused to give me a response. To acknowledge that they once thought that of me. That they once believed I was so much more than this broken down shell of a man. The irony of how I could shine so brightly, to everyone but me, but now is so filled with this nothing that not a single person in my life wants to be around me.

That’s really it, too. My therapist says that Borderline affects me, greatest, in my (in)-ability to handle interpersonal relationships. Hell, my intrapersonal relationship leaves more than a little to be desired. I’ve noticed that people really don’t enjoy being around me, anymore. Why? Well, I’ve got nothing to offer them, anymore. I’m depressed, bring everyone else around me down, and have this tendency to spark into irrational and inappropriate anger at the people I am with at any given time. That guy who everyone came to for advice, that guy everyone looked up to, that guy that was always able to help, who was always understand and ease the pain of others: he’s dead. Since I tried to kill myself, I’ve felt like something in my core died, that day. Why have I not attempted suicide, again? Frankly, I think about killing myself every day. I sleep with my sword. Which, I’m told, at least in this country, or maybe all of them, is considered weird. Even in my dreams, I imagine thrusting it through my heart. Seppuku. The only way to reclaim what I’ve lost. Not even a hundred years can repair a moment’s loss of Honor… My Honor was lost far more than a moment. This loneliness that assaults me from the inside. Sometimes, I don’t think it’s ever going to go away. The way I am, the way I was, and the way I see myself tomorrow: it’s all alone. I’ve been alone since day one and I don’t see a legitimate reason to believe otherwise. What I am experiencing is not life. It is simply the perpetuation of a torturous existence, which I'm fairly certain is against the Geneva convention. It's against something. Common decency, perhaps. As I lust for love, covet acceptance, and beg for simple joy in life, I'm feeding on the people I care about and who care about me. Siphoning their happiness. No wonder they don't want to be around me. The more I feed, the more it takes to temporarily sate my loneliness. Constantly getting hungrier, needing more. Eventually, not even the whole world will be enough to calm my lust. To fill this void. The make this pain go away. So, yes, suicide seems like a pleasant alternative to an existence in which I continue to become even more pained and only hurt others. Why haven't I? Because, there are still some people who care. I still have debts, too. That's the big one. I can't stand owing people. When my debts are paid, we'll see. However long that takes. I have miles to go before I sleep. People care about me, because they're better people than I am. So, I can't just hurt them. Well, I could. But, I'd really rather not. Especially, when I inevitibly fail, because I can't do anything right, they'll leave, because they just keep giving up on me. They all give up on me, eventually. No one can help me. So, they burn themselves out and decide it's not worth it. And then they leave me. So, yes, I am alone. Always alone. It doesn't matter if my grandmother is asleep in the living room, not twenty feet from me, if I've got people in my phone whom would likely answer if I called them, or that there are people in this world who hold even the slighest bit of value to my name and memory: I am alone, because, I am incapable of letting anyone in. When they get close, they see the darkness. That darkness drives them away. And then it grows from the loneliness. It's a cycle. Because, no light can illuminate that darkness. Just wounds that never heal. Never scar over. Salted and burning, constantly. Hunger and pain. For more. Of nothing.

So, what does this all mean? Other than I'm completely out of my mind, I don't know. Sometimes, I just wish someone would hold me. Come up to me, punch me in the face, tell me that they love me, that I'm an idiot for trying to do this all on my own, and then hold me. Is that really that selfish? I know that I'm an incredibly selfish and egoisticly driven individual. I tried to force someone to love me, once. They say that I'm forgiven. But, the guilt has never left me. I don't think it ever will. I just want to be loved in a way that all this pain will be gone or at least tolerable. Is that so wrong? Maybe. To expect so much of others, when I, myself, am unable to do so. I'm really cold right now. Twenty degrees, it may be. But in my heart, it's absolute zero. I hope some of you understand me. I don't expect anyhing, anymore, though. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, darkness to darkness.