Insomniac Nightmares

I tried to do one of these today, and it didn’t go well. I believe it would be marked a fail, were it the sort of exam one received a score for.

I’m exhausted. I’m frustrated. I’m tired. I’m irritable. I’m depressed. About half of that is due to mental illness -I suffer from chronic depression, so that’s to be expected, no matter how much happy candy they throw at me – but the other half is just the situation I’m stuck in.

I can’t work. Doctor’s orders. The government says I can work. Unemployment says I can work, and I’m not making an effort to find work, so tough cookies. That means no income. That means I’m essentially a leech, which is frustrating and depressing to me.

I can’t write. The part of me that used to want to, used to enjoy it, seems broken in some fundamental way. Some of it is rooted in jealousy and a worldview that has come to say “What’s the fucking point? Why write if no one reads it?” Part of it is writer’s block, having nothing I consider of value to say.

All it seems I can do is scroll endlessly through Twitter, being reminded constantly that I receive almost no interaction on my own tweets, surveys, polls or anything else I post, while being surrounded by people who brag incessantly about their own interactions and accomplishments. That feeds into the writing issues, which in turn feeds into the general malaise which makes me want to do anything even less.

So, yeah, all in all, all red checkmarks. Nary a black to be seen. It feels like the only thing I want to do anymore is sleep, just to move the clock forward, but I have no idea what I’m moving it forward to. The next period of staring at the walls, watching YouTube videos I don’t care about, being angry at the internet and taking a pile of pills that don’t seem to do any good while I wait for my next rejection letter from the SSA? Then, after I do that, I’ve been awake for about an hour or two and want to go right back to bed.

I’d say I’m suicidal, except I’m not. I’m too scared of what comes after to be suicidal. I’m sure it’s nothing good – and for my purposes, nothingness would be considered good, mind you – and probably much worse. But I’m as close as one can get to suicidal without actually doing it, I think. I already want to sleep the clock ’round, and that’s what you do when you’re dead, isn’t it?

I don’t know what to do about any of it. I’m just so done with everything, especially myself.