It’s nobody’s fault but mine. I play these games with my own head that I can’t stop or turn around. Depressing shit below the cut. [TW: Thoughts of death]
The bad things count more than the good things, and the unresolved bad things just… keep… weighing me down.
I should be glad that I have three more followers… but I fret that none of them are going to buy my books when they can get a daily flash fiction for free.
I should be glad that our financial troubles are being rejuggled… but I fret that the banks are just going to pull the exact same fuckshit that they pulled on us last time. Plus fees and charges for making a scene if we call them out on it.
I should be glad that my day job is almost ready to take off… but I fret that the content I’ve been working hard on for over a year isn’t going to find an audience because everything I work hard on… every last little thing I care about and pay attention and effort to… can only collect a ‘meh’ from anyone else.
I worry that I’m too bizarre to find an audience. That nobody cares about what I do or how hard I worked, or what I went through to get it done.
And I’m saddened by other things. Things I can’t let go of. Things I probably shouldn’t mention because they’re insignificant to others [“You’re insignificant to others,” cries the darker side of me. It delights in these Moods] and possibly repetitive…
And I’m so down that it’s a struggle to breathe in. It has nothing to do with asthma. It’s just… sadness. A heaping blanket of muffling softness that’s so… heavy… but only in a spiritual sense.
And with every breath… I wonder if it’s really worth it to keep breathing. Just idly. A casual thought. It’d be too much effort to hurt myself enough to die.
It’s times like this that I think of that line in Old Man River. “I’m tired of living, and scared of dying.”
I dunno what’s going to shake me out of it, this time.
Don’t worry too hard about me, dear reader. I’m heartened that you actually read this haemorrhaging flow of mental bile. And please don’t feel bad either. This Mood will pass, as all Moods do. Some little spark of brightness will tip my mental scales back into sunshine again. I’m used to it. I’ll be okay in the long run. I’m just venting, I promise.
And you have to be okay, too. Please. Live for your better tomorrows and revel in them as they happen.
They’re worth the wait.
It’s that promise that keeps me slogging on through these Moods. Even when every breath feels like it’s soup. Even when every step feels like I’m labouring uphill through oatmeal. There’s a better tomorrow ahead.
All I have to do… is live to see it.
