Before the drama of my divorce began, I contemplated suicide every day. It's a good thing that the will to live is so hard-wired in us, or I'd be long dead. Seriously (I actually came close a couple of times to doing it). This wiring does not, however, stop me from seriously considering suicide every day. EVERY day. Especially on days when things go alright for me. I don't know why that is, exactly. I suspect it's because I've been down for long enough that when I'm up a bit, I have to equalize and so I dip even lower. My base-line is that low these days. Also, I don't trust joy. I can enjoy it, I can savor it for a while, but I don't trust it. Whenever I'm moderately happy, I always feel like that's the moment when everything will turn to shit. Whether it does or not is beside the point; when I'm really down, everything "feels" like shit (whether it is or not) and it's felt that way long enough that, even though I hate it, that's the emotional state that feels normal to me. That's the emotional state I can rely upon. This is a terrible state of affairs.
So, my deadline. I seriously considered killing myself on my 39th birthday, but I didn't because I was SO depressed that I couldn't bring myself to do it. I did, however, start planning (almost unconsciously) to off myself on my 40th birthday (my "deadline"). It seems like a good time to do it. Not because it's the beginning of "over the hill" or something, but because it's such a tidy number! 40. Nice, even number of years. I have no kids, no prospects of having kids; only a partial education (nobody cares how smart you are if you don't have written proof that you can complete a course of study [which makes sense in its way]), a history of low-end jobs... I'm not in demand, I benefit nobody. Oh, sure, I could go to community college (and I do think about doing that, but I never move on it) and work my way through a degree and finally have a B.A. in something when I'm 44 or 45, but to what end? If you think there's no agism in the job market, then you don't know a fucking thing. Especially in this dog-shit economy. I'm amazed that I have the job I have because I'm older than pretty much everybody (there's one exception) by at least 10 years. Anyway, what I'm getting at is that I don't have any major responsibilities to stick around for.
Am I bitching? I'm bitching. I'm also having a pity party, take out your tiny violins! Boo hoo!
Anyway, my big point is that I feel like the world wouldn't even notice if I take myself out of it. Oh, sure, my family and the barest handful of friends I have would be upset for a while, but I wouldn't be missed for long. Besides all of that maudlin dreck, it just seems like a responsible thing to do. I'm not unique or special (nobody is, ultimately), I've more or less wasted the potential I was born with. It would create a job opening, it would make room for somebody else in the world. What have I brought to the world of humans? I can't think of anything, it all cancels itself out. For every "positive" thing I think of, I can think of at least two negative things. A net loss. Give somebody else a shot at making something worthwhile in their life.
I've put a lot of thought into how I would do it, too. I want to kill myself responsibly! I'm still mulling the options that would allow me to leave as many harvestable organs as possible. Drowning (in December) seems the best way in those terms; it would be like putting myself on ice, preserving the organs until my body is fished out of whatever body of water I did it in. That would be a worthy contribution: my liver and kidneys are probably pristine (as a non-drinker), my lungs are in good shape (non-smoker), heart feels like it's doing okay; my eyes aren't perfect, so maybe they wouldn't want those. It's good that they can't do anything with brains (yet), 'cos mine is shot. Really, that's the lynch-pin to this whole existential dilemma: my stupid brain. Oh, and there are several gold crowns in my mouth, that might be worth something.
By now some of you (you, the three [maybe] people who have read this awful blog) are probably thinking, "he should really talk to somebody about this". Yes, I should. It's something I'm looking into, but with no health benefits and limited public resources, it's not so easy as just going to talk to somebody. I was thinking of launching into a diatribe about how mental health services are so undervalued, but other people have done it much better; read about it elsewhere. Anyway, I want to talk about it (why do you think I wrote this horrible blog?), but the most insidious thing about depression is that you come to think of your problems as being unworthy of anybody's time. Why would I bother apparently happy, "normal" people with my problems? I'm not important enough to warrant anybody's consideration. This is another big problem for me, I assume that I'm worthless and beneath anybody's concern (even my own).
A lot of this stuff is given strength by lingering problems from my divorce. Jen was such a cunt to me, was so cold and inconsiderate (she's a narcissist, after all); there's still so much hurt and anger left over from the whole fiasco. Yes, I hear you, I'm trying to find a way to talk to somebody about it. All of the things that happened have been turned inward. That's the craziest thing of all: there's still a part of me that's totally in love with her (at least with the memory of her). That makes it particularly difficult when it comes to beating up on myself. When I'm in that crazy place, it's CLEARLY my fault that things went the way they did, I DESERVE to be miserable now. But when I'm swinging the other direction, it appears to have been ALL Jen's fault (personality disorder or not). There's a middle ground, to be sure, but I'm not certain of where it is.
So much shit to work on...
I wish I had a tidy end to this terrible post. I've got a few months before my 40th birthday, I'm trying to figure this stuff out (or at least give it room) and get some perspective on it.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Shoulder that weight.
In September of 2010, I had a bike accident and separated my right shoulder. Here's how it happened:
I was heading East on 45th from Wallingford to the U District. Just as I was mounting the curb on the bridge over I-5, I had to swerve left behind a utility pole. What I didn't see was the access box on the side of the pole. I struck the box (thank goodness for my helmet) with my head, which set me off balance. I then struck the square, wooden post with the "ramp metered" sign on it. It was painful and all that. I more or less recovered in about 5 or 6 weeks. I also neatly snapped the wooden post (apologies to WSDOT).
That broadly covers the mechanics of how it happened. Here's the why:
I talked to a girl.
There are bike-posts at the EMP. I had seen a white Bianchi Pista fixie locked to one of them several times and always wondered about to whom it belonged. As I was leaving that particular day, there was the owner of the Bianchi unlocking her bike! Her name is Monica. She's very pretty and - as near as I can tell - very nice. I was excited to meet her and strike up a conversation. We spoke of bikes and jobs and all that kind of chit-chat. But when it got a bit more personal, it also got awkward. We established that we were both riding towards the U District via Fremont/Wallingford, then - after a long pause - she pointedly informed me that she preferred to ride alone. I took the hint and just kind of dropped the whole conversation. This would have been the end of it, but we kept shadowing each-other all the way over Dexter and into Fremont. At some point she changed course, I've not seen her since.
So all of that in mind, I continued up Stone Way and then onto 45th. I was disappointed that the whole encounter had gone so awry. It began as an examination of the conversation, but morphed into a depressing critique on how ill-adept I am at talking to girls. It went even further to become a proof that women do not like me and that I shall be alone for the rest of my life. It was in this frame of mind that I went sailing onto the bridge. I was so distracted by my self-flagellation that I wrecked and ended up with $2,500.00 in ER bills, a separated shoulder and six weeks of relative inactivity (and weight-gain). Who knew that talking to girls was so hazardous?
Now I'm riding again; still trying to lose the weight (again!). Also still trying to talk to girls in spite of the apparent danger. I have managed to make a couple of friends (work friends, not "let's go hang out" friends) with the effort, but I can't help but feel like I'm still doomed when it comes to dating. It doesn't help that most of the girls I've ended up talking to are eight to ten years younger than I am. No matter how nicely any given conversation goes, I end up feeling like the "creepy old guy" at work. All of this says nothing of feeling like I'm always vastly out-classed by the women I work with. So, what's a boy to do?
I re-activated my OKCupid profile. I get an occasional visitor, but that's it. I've sent messages to a handful of women, but none of them has ever replied. The whole online dating thing is frankly stupid (but at least I'm not paying for the service). I haven't read one profile yet that didn't thoroughly intimidate me. In fact, lots of profiles I've read seem to be designed to make men run headlong the other way. There are a few who are so prickly that I wonder why they bothered to make a profile to begin with; I got the distinct impression that they didn't want to meet anybody at all. Equally baffling are the ladies who present the reader with a list of demands on personality and physiology (and indirectly income!) so particular as to exclude almost every man. Perhaps that's the point. But why go to all the trouble to prove to yourself (and anybody unfortunate enough to read your profile) how fiercely independent you are? Do you really expect anyone to find that endearing in any way?
Every time I read my own profile, I want to delete it and start over (or just delete it for good). Doubtless I'm over-thinking the whole thing, but I get so many mixed messages from the profiles I read that I don't know how to present myself anymore. I guess it's good to know what you want (or what you think you want); but I can't help but feel like my business isn't needed or even particularly desired.
Check this out: Every single day at work I see dumpy, schlubby guys with beautiful girlfriends/wives. It's mind-boggling! I can't help but wonder what it is that they have which I haven't. Can it be that I'm irreparably pudgy, dumpy and unattractive? Does it really just come down to resource allocation and the perception of a man as safety and being a provider? I'm at a loss and I'm starting to take it personally.
That's the worst part of it: taking it personally. I catch myself becoming angry at attractive women(!). WTF is that about? Resentment at a perceived judgement or perceived rejection? At least I catch myself; but it's such a compelling story to tell myself (how worthless I feel I am). It's difficult to break it up once it's rolling along. Again, I'm surely over-thinking this thing; but what the hell does one do with this kind of frustration?
Here's a joke that the ER doc who looked at me didn't get at all:
Doc: We've got your x-rays here, your right shoulder isn't dislocated after all, it's separated.
Me: Oh. Does that mean it's going to divorce me?
Doc: What?
I was heading East on 45th from Wallingford to the U District. Just as I was mounting the curb on the bridge over I-5, I had to swerve left behind a utility pole. What I didn't see was the access box on the side of the pole. I struck the box (thank goodness for my helmet) with my head, which set me off balance. I then struck the square, wooden post with the "ramp metered" sign on it. It was painful and all that. I more or less recovered in about 5 or 6 weeks. I also neatly snapped the wooden post (apologies to WSDOT).
That broadly covers the mechanics of how it happened. Here's the why:
I talked to a girl.
There are bike-posts at the EMP. I had seen a white Bianchi Pista fixie locked to one of them several times and always wondered about to whom it belonged. As I was leaving that particular day, there was the owner of the Bianchi unlocking her bike! Her name is Monica. She's very pretty and - as near as I can tell - very nice. I was excited to meet her and strike up a conversation. We spoke of bikes and jobs and all that kind of chit-chat. But when it got a bit more personal, it also got awkward. We established that we were both riding towards the U District via Fremont/Wallingford, then - after a long pause - she pointedly informed me that she preferred to ride alone. I took the hint and just kind of dropped the whole conversation. This would have been the end of it, but we kept shadowing each-other all the way over Dexter and into Fremont. At some point she changed course, I've not seen her since.
So all of that in mind, I continued up Stone Way and then onto 45th. I was disappointed that the whole encounter had gone so awry. It began as an examination of the conversation, but morphed into a depressing critique on how ill-adept I am at talking to girls. It went even further to become a proof that women do not like me and that I shall be alone for the rest of my life. It was in this frame of mind that I went sailing onto the bridge. I was so distracted by my self-flagellation that I wrecked and ended up with $2,500.00 in ER bills, a separated shoulder and six weeks of relative inactivity (and weight-gain). Who knew that talking to girls was so hazardous?
Now I'm riding again; still trying to lose the weight (again!). Also still trying to talk to girls in spite of the apparent danger. I have managed to make a couple of friends (work friends, not "let's go hang out" friends) with the effort, but I can't help but feel like I'm still doomed when it comes to dating. It doesn't help that most of the girls I've ended up talking to are eight to ten years younger than I am. No matter how nicely any given conversation goes, I end up feeling like the "creepy old guy" at work. All of this says nothing of feeling like I'm always vastly out-classed by the women I work with. So, what's a boy to do?
I re-activated my OKCupid profile. I get an occasional visitor, but that's it. I've sent messages to a handful of women, but none of them has ever replied. The whole online dating thing is frankly stupid (but at least I'm not paying for the service). I haven't read one profile yet that didn't thoroughly intimidate me. In fact, lots of profiles I've read seem to be designed to make men run headlong the other way. There are a few who are so prickly that I wonder why they bothered to make a profile to begin with; I got the distinct impression that they didn't want to meet anybody at all. Equally baffling are the ladies who present the reader with a list of demands on personality and physiology (and indirectly income!) so particular as to exclude almost every man. Perhaps that's the point. But why go to all the trouble to prove to yourself (and anybody unfortunate enough to read your profile) how fiercely independent you are? Do you really expect anyone to find that endearing in any way?
Every time I read my own profile, I want to delete it and start over (or just delete it for good). Doubtless I'm over-thinking the whole thing, but I get so many mixed messages from the profiles I read that I don't know how to present myself anymore. I guess it's good to know what you want (or what you think you want); but I can't help but feel like my business isn't needed or even particularly desired.
Check this out: Every single day at work I see dumpy, schlubby guys with beautiful girlfriends/wives. It's mind-boggling! I can't help but wonder what it is that they have which I haven't. Can it be that I'm irreparably pudgy, dumpy and unattractive? Does it really just come down to resource allocation and the perception of a man as safety and being a provider? I'm at a loss and I'm starting to take it personally.
That's the worst part of it: taking it personally. I catch myself becoming angry at attractive women(!). WTF is that about? Resentment at a perceived judgement or perceived rejection? At least I catch myself; but it's such a compelling story to tell myself (how worthless I feel I am). It's difficult to break it up once it's rolling along. Again, I'm surely over-thinking this thing; but what the hell does one do with this kind of frustration?
Here's a joke that the ER doc who looked at me didn't get at all:
Doc: We've got your x-rays here, your right shoulder isn't dislocated after all, it's separated.
Me: Oh. Does that mean it's going to divorce me?
Doc: What?
Thursday, November 11, 2010
It's (not) over 9,000!
So, it's over. The divorce is final. I was there at the final moment, to put it to rest personally. She didn't want me there, I think; it was her show, after all. I found it remarkable that I was silently bawling in front of the judge and Jen seemed frankly happy and buoyant! Hooray! What a cunt.
Have I mentioned that she has a personality disorder? She does. Narcissism that borders on being a sociopath, sometimes. She will be the very last person on Earth to admit it or even acknowledge that there might be something amiss with herself. Makes me wonder what the hell she talks about with her therapist. I know she was working on her "daddy issues", but really that just goes along with making everything about her. When I was super depressed, not bathing regularly, not brushing my teeth regularly, just not looking after myself ("why bother?" says depression), she actually said that I was trying to push her away and make her not find me attractive anymore. Thank you for making my depression all about YOU. Furthermore, nothing could have been further from the truth. I was DESPERATE for her acceptance, her affection, her attention. ANYTHING would have been better than living with a person who was so completely emotionally detached. I was still completely in love with her, but I was panicking at the growing emotional distance she was putting between us.
My reaction? To clam up, not say what was bothering me, don't make waves. Admittedly, it was a stupid tactic, but that was the head-space I was in at the time. "Just don't make things worse if you can help it." That, of course, made things worse. Lack of communication on my part (both our parts, really) and utter lack of understanding (and interest) in what I was going through. It's hard to deal a person going through a depressive episode, but it's got to be totally impossible for a narcissist. A person who only thinks about how things affect or benefit themselves is altogether unable to begin to sympathize or empathize with depression. When we went to see my therapist (at my therapist's request, she wanted to meet Jen), Jen's question to her was, "If he gets depressed, what do I do?" Wow. Like there was a magic charm that would fix me so that she wouldn't have to deal with it.
She did things like this often and not just to me, either. The way she dealt with people was baffling to me. She was your implacable ally until she didn't need you anymore. After that, it was like you didn't exist. She was done with you. Family, friends, co-workers, husband; these were all just factors in her ongoing cost/benefit analysis. You aren't a person to her, you are a thing that might benefit her for some reason; a thing that might gratify some desire temporarily. All of these insights came well after the fact, of course. At the time, I had pangs of uncertainty about her when she did things like this, but I was in love with her, I let them slide.
It may be pointed out that all people are like this to one extent or another. That might be true. But with Jen, it was definitely true; she made a science of it.
"Bob" help the next person she ends up dating. He's in for a rude surprise somewhere along the way.
Have I mentioned that she has a personality disorder? She does. Narcissism that borders on being a sociopath, sometimes. She will be the very last person on Earth to admit it or even acknowledge that there might be something amiss with herself. Makes me wonder what the hell she talks about with her therapist. I know she was working on her "daddy issues", but really that just goes along with making everything about her. When I was super depressed, not bathing regularly, not brushing my teeth regularly, just not looking after myself ("why bother?" says depression), she actually said that I was trying to push her away and make her not find me attractive anymore. Thank you for making my depression all about YOU. Furthermore, nothing could have been further from the truth. I was DESPERATE for her acceptance, her affection, her attention. ANYTHING would have been better than living with a person who was so completely emotionally detached. I was still completely in love with her, but I was panicking at the growing emotional distance she was putting between us.
My reaction? To clam up, not say what was bothering me, don't make waves. Admittedly, it was a stupid tactic, but that was the head-space I was in at the time. "Just don't make things worse if you can help it." That, of course, made things worse. Lack of communication on my part (both our parts, really) and utter lack of understanding (and interest) in what I was going through. It's hard to deal a person going through a depressive episode, but it's got to be totally impossible for a narcissist. A person who only thinks about how things affect or benefit themselves is altogether unable to begin to sympathize or empathize with depression. When we went to see my therapist (at my therapist's request, she wanted to meet Jen), Jen's question to her was, "If he gets depressed, what do I do?" Wow. Like there was a magic charm that would fix me so that she wouldn't have to deal with it.
She did things like this often and not just to me, either. The way she dealt with people was baffling to me. She was your implacable ally until she didn't need you anymore. After that, it was like you didn't exist. She was done with you. Family, friends, co-workers, husband; these were all just factors in her ongoing cost/benefit analysis. You aren't a person to her, you are a thing that might benefit her for some reason; a thing that might gratify some desire temporarily. All of these insights came well after the fact, of course. At the time, I had pangs of uncertainty about her when she did things like this, but I was in love with her, I let them slide.
It may be pointed out that all people are like this to one extent or another. That might be true. But with Jen, it was definitely true; she made a science of it.
"Bob" help the next person she ends up dating. He's in for a rude surprise somewhere along the way.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The whirlpool
Why do I do this to myself?
I took one quick look at her profile and now I'm having cold sweats and want to off myself. She's getting skinny (frankly, I think she looks ill), she's having fun, everything is going her way. I had such a surge of HATE flow through me, it was scary.
I then went through my FB page and deleted all the photos of her I could. It was like setting myself on fire. There is still such an abundance of hurt for me in this.
I took one quick look at her profile and now I'm having cold sweats and want to off myself. She's getting skinny (frankly, I think she looks ill), she's having fun, everything is going her way. I had such a surge of HATE flow through me, it was scary.
I then went through my FB page and deleted all the photos of her I could. It was like setting myself on fire. There is still such an abundance of hurt for me in this.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Darkness
In my whole life, I've never been so angry that I couldn't sleep until all of this divorce bullshit started. Now, whenever I get an email from Jen (guaranteed), I end up wide awake and seething for at least half the night.
If I start to drift off to sleep, I always wake up moments later from horrible, dark dreams which I can't bring myself to describe (beyond "horrible" and "dark").
So, do I stay awake miserable and angry, or do I try to suffer the dark nightmares of the deepest recesses of the reptilian part of the brain and get some sleep (even if it's not particularly restful)? This dilemma SUCKS.
If I start to drift off to sleep, I always wake up moments later from horrible, dark dreams which I can't bring myself to describe (beyond "horrible" and "dark").
So, do I stay awake miserable and angry, or do I try to suffer the dark nightmares of the deepest recesses of the reptilian part of the brain and get some sleep (even if it's not particularly restful)? This dilemma SUCKS.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Everything falls apart.
Well, the divorce becomes final any moment now. Jen has refused my last offer to undertake some kind of therapy / reconciliation. I've been grappling with all the underlying anger of the situation; I've had terrible nightmares and sleepless nights from it. I get NO closure in this, Jen refuses to talk about it (to me, anyway). One interesting aside: Her offer to give me three months living expenses in exchange for signing over the condo to her was pretty funny. I countered that I would sign it over for $10,000 and be done with it. NOW she wants to go to mediation! LOLZ She wants to be rid of me, but she doesn't want to help me in any substantial way. Of course, she's dislocating her shoulders from patting herself on the back for her generous offer; I think it's going to be an interesting mediation.
She's lost ALL touch with what things really cost. She makes nearly six figures and thinks that all I have to do is get a job and everything will be fine, I'll be instantly prosperous. I had to remind her that most apartments want first/last/deposit to get in the door, she said, "Oh, I hadn't thought of that." No shit. That's one item in a litany of things she hasn't thought about.
When we had only been together for a short time, I heard her complaining to her friend, Kong, that her first job after college only payed $25 per hour and Kong agreed that that was chump change. The feeling was all indignation and repulsion at the very thought of ONLY making $25 per hour. I interjected, "what does that say about me, then? I only make $16 per hour." They fell all over themselves trying to backpedal and justify what they said, but their meaning was clear enough to me. Now imagine going up against that feeling of entitlement in a divorce mediation.
What else... I've got a job which pays crap and offers VERY few hours (and no benefits), but it's the first job I've landed in over a year, so I'm keeping it for now. However, I certainly can't afford rent on what the job pays, so I'm kind of stuck again. A couple of friends have offered that I can stay with them for a while, which is very generous of them, but they both live well out of the way from where I need to go. Argh!
I'm also running out of meds. I can get them refilled, but it means using the money I was lent for getting into an apartment. Fuck's sake.
So, everything is falling apart (again).
She's lost ALL touch with what things really cost. She makes nearly six figures and thinks that all I have to do is get a job and everything will be fine, I'll be instantly prosperous. I had to remind her that most apartments want first/last/deposit to get in the door, she said, "Oh, I hadn't thought of that." No shit. That's one item in a litany of things she hasn't thought about.
When we had only been together for a short time, I heard her complaining to her friend, Kong, that her first job after college only payed $25 per hour and Kong agreed that that was chump change. The feeling was all indignation and repulsion at the very thought of ONLY making $25 per hour. I interjected, "what does that say about me, then? I only make $16 per hour." They fell all over themselves trying to backpedal and justify what they said, but their meaning was clear enough to me. Now imagine going up against that feeling of entitlement in a divorce mediation.
What else... I've got a job which pays crap and offers VERY few hours (and no benefits), but it's the first job I've landed in over a year, so I'm keeping it for now. However, I certainly can't afford rent on what the job pays, so I'm kind of stuck again. A couple of friends have offered that I can stay with them for a while, which is very generous of them, but they both live well out of the way from where I need to go. Argh!
I'm also running out of meds. I can get them refilled, but it means using the money I was lent for getting into an apartment. Fuck's sake.
So, everything is falling apart (again).
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