Approaching 25 Years of Blissful Hell

I’m fantasizing of running away to Mayberry RFD. I’d work at the grocery store by day, and maybe drink my self to an early grave at night. I’d get involved in, or start some local theatre, and sing in the church choir. Nosy people who might want to get to know me would find that I’m not interested.

Everybody here could get along without me. Those closest to me, would be better off in the long run. Especially Rolf, who could find a boy friend that isn’t sexually apathetic, and who might enjoy pretending to be a character from Seinfeld. Maybe he’d listen to a new boyfriend, one who doesn’t have a history of being wrong all the time, and get him-self into therapy.

Don’t you think two messed up people in a relationship is two to many?

Ok. I’m a bit fucked up. With the doctor’s approval, I’ve stopped taking one anti-depressant, and have moved on to another. This is one that worked for me before. But these things take a little time. Meanwhile, suicidal ideation is back. I hate that. I’m also frustrated with every one who I love. Even though I’ve hardly seen them because of the show I’m in. Part of the suicidal ideation is imagining what would happen to those I left behind. Luckily, I have a conscience, because that stops my unwelcome thought pattern. Yet, I’m wrongly thinking about them nagging me. I don’t think I want to be loved.

My sister is getting a divorce. So, she has reality to blame for her depression, me – just some stupid chemicals that get out of balance. Add in a job I hate, a lover so frustrated with life that he can’t talk to me without me wanting to wring his neck, insufficient exercise . . . and the hopelessness becomes overwhelming. I find it hard to not believe that my life will always be like this: pretty on the outside, but rotten at the core. I’ll become more and more closeted off, and he’ll become more and more frustrated.

And “being there at the end is what counts” will be a bittersweet truth.

I will always love him. I wish we were happy.

There was a period a few years ago when I was afraid to talk at home. I felt as if I were hugging the walls and trying to go unnoticed. I was afraid to talk, and angry that he didn’t want to hear anything I said. Of course that was during a very dramatic phase of his life, but none-the-less, everything I said made him mad. Now it’s the other way around. I’ll talk, and just wish he would shut-up. Everything he says is either negative, dismissive, full of fear and self-loathing, or down-right insulting; it makes me so mad. So mad, that even before he talks, or arrives, or calls, I am already and always mad at him. Well, to one degree or another.

I mean, I try. He tries. We got along fine last night. It was rather intentional, and a bit forced, but you do what you have to do. I was afraid we’d be mean and hateful. But I really wanted to spend some time with him. So I came home right after the show, and we had a late snack together. I don’t know what we talked about, but I didn’t get insulted, and I didn’t call him a jerk or asshole. We watched Jon Stewart together while sitting on the couch. I scratched his back for a long time, as he scratched my legs. I love that.

If we were ever no longer together, and I remembered a random and ordinary moment like that, I don’t know how I could go on.

Of course, I have to bear in mind that I suffer from a major depressive disorder, and I'm way off balance at the moment. But I just really can’t help but wish for true happiness. I just can't.

The wishing may destroy me.

I want these drugs to start working already!