Indistinct Mumblings of an Unsound Mind

I don’t suppose you’ll ever really understand how frustrating it is. You’ll never know how your depression affects other people because if we tell you, it only makes you worse. I’ve been on that side before, and I understand it. I just need a place to vent, because it is immensely frustrating. It’s like you’re a fucking child sometimes, in that you always have to get your way. The second something doesn’t go your way you just emotionally collapse into an apathetic zombie or an angry, relentlessly snide and hateful human being that is only capable of spreading your pessimism to others.

I try. I know I can’t fix things, but I try to mend them anyway. It never works, but I try over and over and over again because I can’t stand to see people suffer. Not you, specifically, but people in general. That’s the kind of person I am. Or at least I was. And I remember having the conversation with you that explained how my ex-wife did the same thing to me. She’d get angry at me for helping others all the time and putting her needs aside for people I didn’t even know or people she didn’t approve of like my friends and family. And I caved for her until I just couldn’t take it anymore and I left. It took five years, but there’s a point when all your friends are gone and you can’t even stop on the side of a road to help someone with a flat tire without getting chewed out. I finally exploded and let her know everything that was wrong with our relationship: all the little things, the big things, and everything in-between; then I left her because that was just a toxic relationship.

And I know I’m not perfect. I yell and am quick to anger lately. I’m not violent, like my father before me; but everything just builds and builds and I talk to you about it like an adult. Heaven forbid that someone say the truth to you. That’s just mean and cruel and only pulls out the little shreds of self-esteem you still have. But you know I won’t lie to you. I won’t even skew the truth a little. It’s just not who I am. So you expect me to hold everything back and just listen to your negativity all the time. It’s wearing. I can’t hold up all the shit you fling at me on a day-to-day basis. You need a never-ending pit of optimism or someone that is hardened enough to not care. I’m neither of those.

Think about the men you like. You call them assholes, but they aren’t. Not really. They’re just callous. Plain and simple, they don’t give a fuck about anyone other than themselves and a few other select people. You’d like to be one of those people the care for and/or admire, but you’re emotionally unstable and you know that callous people don’t take risks with unstable people. So you settle to be used by them, because they are what you really want; and to use me, because I’m the one willing to support your needs. That’s messed up, even by my standards.

And then I add to the stress, because you keep expecting me to care more, but every day I care less and less. Every day that I see you sink back into yourself, giving up on your simple goals like employment or getting your weight back down to a manageable size, or those times when you bitch about my kids and then behave just like them, or even when you complain about how unhappy you are with yourself and then commit some act of self-sabotage like pulling out your hair or intentionally over-eating: I care less. Why? Because I see a person unwilling to change.

Unwilling, as in without the will the change. You know, without a shadow or a doubt, what exactly you should be doing, and you’re electing not to do it. That’s fine. That’s your decision as an adult. But to make everyone else around you miserable because you lack self-control is wrong. You’re punishing us for your mistakes and that’s just unacceptable.

But the gall, the gall of all this crap is I can’t even say anything about it. I so much as question how much you eaten and you get defensive, then beat yourself up for hours when all I ask is what you’ve eaten. I already know what you’ve eaten: ┬áthe food that I had set aside for my dinner, alongside an additional two chicken breasts, 4 cups of Beans and Rice, 2 glasses of soda, 2 servings of chips and you’re going in for another serving of something else. The point was to nicely let you know that you’re eating more food in one sitting than the rest of the family does in a day.

I look at you and I see someone who quit. It hurts because I know how easy it would be to quit. Things never get easier – not for people like us. I wake up every day and have to find a reason to get out of bed. That’s been a bit easier lately, with the desire to murder those birds arriving sharply at 6:17 every morning, but in all seriousness: I don’t want to live anymore. The goal is to stay alive and enjoy things when I can, even when they are few and far between. This doesn’t involve being angry at the world for my poor decisions or the situation I’ve been landed with.

I’m not done, because I haven’t even touched on the other stuff, like the fact that you’ll only initiate sex with me in your sleep, when you think I’m someone else and then promptly cut it off when you realize it’s me, or any of the other issues in our relationship. But the point is, there are too many of them. This just isn’t working. I’m scared to sign another lease with you because you’re going to end up committing suicide or I’m going to want to leave or something. All this negativity is too much for me and I don’t want to get stiffed trying to pay bills with my two kids in a $1200 rental without that extra $1000 a month. See? I’m becoming callous, too.

 

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