Still Don’t Know Why I Live

Why would anyone want to be alive? I’m not sure.

Why do anything when everything you do leads nowhere?

The only time anything feels like it leads somewhere is if someone else was there to witness it. I’m not sure if that’s just because of something wrong with me, like my derealization disorder (nothing feels real or memorable unless someone else is there.)

Life just goes on endlessly empty and the nothingness is demotivating. I can’t think of anything that could motivate me, that could get me to care, that could make things feel real. Even in fantasy.

Other than my mother. I don’t know why, but somehow I feel a link to my mother would bring some life to my life. But it doesn’t make any rational sense. She’s sadistic, cold-hearted, and seems to only bring ill-fortune to my life. She’s been a curse in my life that brought endless drama and tragedy. Why do I feel this way? Is this love? Is this trauma-bonding? Is the emptiness I feel inside making me subconsciously drawn to her?

It’s not just my mother that allows me to imagine feeling real and alive. It’s a lover. Someone to bring me life. To make me feel real.

The more I write, the more I realize none of this is probably going to make sense to anyone other than people with derealization disorder. It might not even make sense to them.

I am alive and nothing more. So I might as well not be alive. Every moment is unpleasant and demotivating. Every bad experience makes me want to be alive less and less. The horrible sensations in my body. The horrible sensations around me. The nothingness. The emptiness. The big nothing that I am. The big disempowering nothing that is my future.

Nothingness. Disempowerment. That sums up my life.

I want a lover to save me. I can’t even think about it. Can’t fantasize about it. I have a block. A mental block that says I can’t have that. And that it’s stupid and not going to work anyway. A lover is just a fantasy.

I almost saw a positive psychology therapist that asked if I’d ever been in love. (It goes along with the concept of positive psychology, if you’re not familiar with it.) I choke up when people say things like that to me. “Who me? Is that something I’m allowed in this life?” I feel like I want to blush, like someone just told me I could have something I never thought I could have because it’s only for the cool kids and not someone lowly like me. I can’t explain this reaction.

Fantasy is the closest thing to being alive and wanting to live that I’ll ever have, it seems. And I don’t even do it. It seems I’ve got to dedicate a good chunk of my life to fantasy in order to keep going.

I just don’t want to do that. It seems wrong. It’s not real. What’s real is that I’m nothing and have no life. I don’t like running from what’s real, out of principle.

Reality is too exhausting. Too ugly. Too painful.

I’ve had to see people for who they really are, under their masks. The horrible, ugly, painful truth. The lies. The fact that reality isn’t what it seems. That no one is on your side. That you aren’t safe around others.

That the world is really just a bunch of sick people running around living delusions, fantasies and sadistic pleasures. And you have to live in a fantasy, too, in order to keep living here. It’s hard to hold onto morals. I don’t know what to do with this world of disharmony.

Disempowerment. I’m tired of being trapped. My inability to tolerate being trapped has led to me to do extreme things in my life to try to escape it. Mistakes. It seems I should have just given in to being trapped, to living life stuck in a house living through a computer screen with no actual life outsie of the internet.

I should have been able to accept that. Some people would love to live their life that way. I just can’t. It’s too unpleasant for me. I think that it’s not the internet life itself that’s the most unpleasant, but the fact that I’m chained to people I dislike. That I can’t go anywhere without them taking me there. That the only living things I come in contact with are these cold, sadistic creatures. It makes me sick. My sick, twisted parents. My sick, twisted caretaker. I’m so sick of it. I can’t breath.

Published by illnessislife

Sick of being so sick I can't live life. But it's been so long like this that I accept it. Illness is life. I have no other life.

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