#just a suppliment because REALLY worthy partners are too good for him (it is what I actually heard from both of them)

[katyspersonal]

Sometimes I have my doubts that I actually deserve unconditional love, acceptance and genuine admiration of myself as a person. Sometimes I wonder if I am just thinking too high of myself, whereas being very far from being a hot shit... Someone as unlikeable and unattractive as me sure should be way more desperate to be picked by someone, anyone. I should be terrified of dying alone - especially in this homophobic fascist dumpster fire of a country.

Yet when I come to realise that I am only picked because this guy convinced himself that no one else but me will ever "tolerate" him, whereas not only he doesn't love me but actually resents all too many of my personality traits, hobbies, mental limitations and even physical features... I just can't. Even if I myself am attracted and would love to live together - I just CAN'T be this. I can't be "the only option avialable" and face being resented because people he would actually like are "too good" for him. Suddenly despite me knowing that I am certainly dying alone, my pride kicks in - along with me not wanting to 'take the spot'.

But I wonder if I am delusional, after all. Like... yes, I insist that some people should REALLY exercise some more self-respect and stop latching onto any person that "accepts" them. But what about me? Maybe I am not even worthy of being loved and cared about. Maybe I just am physically incapable of inspiring someone to want to cherish me and encourage me and think that I am pretty great, interesting and smart. It is always a person that wishes literally everything about me was different, but "can't choose". But what if there is a good reason? What if I am just worthless for anything besides my weird tolerance for abuse and evil? And I deluded myself that I have any skills, talent, intelligence and fun about me? Because deep down I know - and I am terrified to find out how as a person, I am just do not deserve such high, sincere, genuine feelings.

[mycounselortoldmetojournal]

On Therapy, Bicep Veins, and Suicide

I had a session tonight with therapy dude and I kinda want to kill myself.  That’s both literal and hyperbole.  On the one hand, yeah, I kinda feel like such shit like I haven’t felt since I actually did try to kill myself the night of Mardi Gras.  But, having been through that, I’m not gonna even go down that road. So, on the other hand, yeah, it’s hyperbole. 

I still feel like shit, though.

What I heard therapy dude say tonight was “you’re too angry for therapy.  Every time I ask you something, you get angry.” Now that’s not what he said, but that’s what I heard.  What i heard was, “you’re too angry for therapy,” and by extension, “you suck too much for therapy. You’re an angry person. You’re bad. So bad and so angry, in fact, you’re beyond help.”  Hence, wanting to off myself. Again.

What I’d say to therapy dude (while admittedly still very angry,) is that I literally cannot understand what it is you’re saying;  I can’t discern between a statement and a question, or if there’s a comment in there, or what the take away is, and the repeated verbal tick of “right?” just throws me for a fuckin’ loop. It’s not content; it’s literally sentence structure and syntax.  And while you may want me to “take a risk and guess at my point,” I really don’t know what the point of that is.  If the point you’re driving at is “how does Ethan’s mind work,” an open ended sentence that’s neither question nor comment just leaves me wondering, “Da fuq am I doing here?”

And so I left therapy bro and session, pissed, running his words through a process or filter to which I have no conscious access, that spit out the result that I was too angry for therapy, and too much of a shit human being to be worthy of helping, and walked up the street to do what I do: eat my feelings, and feel guilty about that, too.

Pizza place.  Walk through the front door. And there, right at the entrance, is a 40-something ish dude wearing a Suppliment fuckin’ superstore t-shirt and a giant-ass bicep with a bicep vein sticking out.  And for whatever reason, that hurt more than leaving therapy.  If therapy bro told me i was a piece of shit in his own way (which he didn’t; I did. I know that, but still.. that’s the takeaway,) bicep vein dude did it 10x worse.

Why? I have no fucking clue.  But it hurt more.  For whatever reason, his bicep vein said to me, “Ethan, you SHOULD have this. You SHOULD be more athletic. You WERE a fat piece of shit and you’re down 110 lbs, but you haven’t done what you SHOULD have done. You SHOULD have huge arms. Why the fuck don’t you, you fat lazy fuck? Fuck my genetics; no excuse. You SHOULD be better.”

And for whatever reason, I believed that voice. I always believe that voice.  That voice speaks with an authority that isn’t questioned.  I can question therapy bro all night. While I understand every word therapy bro speak individually, when strung together, I can’t make heads or tails of it. I want to say “And your point is...?” but that’s considered rude and he’s probably say “What do YOU think the point is?” and I’d just want to get violent. But bicep bro? That vein?  That vein speak volumes.  Because I can see it. And I can compare what i see on him to what i see staring back at me in the mirror. And all I feel is anger, and shame, and hatred.... wanting to take the knife and carve the shame away. Over, and over, and over. Wanting to go to the gym, but being ashamed of being weaker than the guys I see there. Comparison.  They’re better than me.  I’m worthelss... that’s what the voice says. And for whatever reason, I hear it. 

And so here I sit. Wanting to cry but too proud to ever let myself. Wanting to have someone, my man, my partner, my guy, into whose chest I could cry, but I never would or could.  I could never believe that someone would let me cry into their chest and not judge me; not think i’m weak; not thing I’m not a real man because I need to express myself.  Oh, I’ve seen the PSAs; I know real men cry... but fuck if I’ll let someone else see me.

I dont’ want to drink. Partly because I feel like shit when I’m drunk, but mostly because it’s empty calories that I can’t afford right now. I don’t smoke weed or use, so.... I’m not cool enough to know anyone who can score something stronger..... which is probably a good thing.

So..... yeah.  No wonder I want to kill myself.

But, I’ve been here before.  Probability of odds says I’ll be here again. And I know that tomorrow the sun will still rise. And I will too. And I”ll feel better. But for now, I’m gonna shut out the world.  I’m not gonna go to the drag show I was looking forward to all week, cause as volitle as I am, I’d probably punch the dude who told me I give him too many compliments. I’m going to take a sleeping pill (just one... calm down people; I get the cause for alarm, but really, just one.) and go to sleep.  Eh. Probability of odds is I’ll sniff myself into a poppers induced haze and jerk off to porn of some muscle bound 20-something whiel wondering why I can’t look like and/or land a guy like him, and go to bed feeling even worse.

I’d talk about it, but apparently I get angry in session.  And therapy bro, I promise you, you ain’t ever seen me get anywhere *CLOSE* to angry. 

“Comparison is the thief of joy.”  No shit, Teddy Roosevelt.  Now, does anyone have a pithy statement of how not to?