My whole life is a desperate search for comfort.
Or, in other words, a desperate attempt to escape pain and discomfort.
I just really need metal. Hard, aggressive insane metal.
I don’t think listening to metal would be a need if I could find peace.
I don’t know why metal is so comforting. I don’t know how people get by with chronic pain, weakness and illness without something to help them. I don’t handle it well. My body feels like porous sandpaper. I don’t know if others would know what I mean by that.
Really, all of reality feels like porous sandpaper. Dry and abrasive.
Empty like an ocean dried of it’s water with dust in its place.
Unpleasant like a dusty room with only the sounds of appliances and the highway to bring “life” and “cheer” to the place. (Yeah, I hate my room. It’s great for people with sensory processing issues. *sarcasm*)
I’m so tired of trying.
I try to hard, harder than my system can handle, and it hurts.
I need to relax.
But, no alcohol for me. Can’t relax that way.
No outings for me.
And the TV is too abrasive for my sensory processing issues.
I wish I had a pleasant place to go. But the word pleasant means something different to me than it does to other people. My sensory environment really affects me. The visuals. The surroundings. I want somewhere with a nice sensory environment. And pleasant company.
But things also can’t be pleasant for me unless I don’t have to care anymore. I don’t have to think so hard anymore. I don’t have to worry about every little rule and every other little thing. And I can just flow. Something that brings me out of hyperfocusing.
I want to be soothed.
I have a desperate need for something I can’t have and it feels like it encompasses my whole life.
I always think I’m going to get there. If I do this or that, I’ll be soothed. If I have this product or try that thing.
But then I doubt myself. Who am I to be asking for so much in an attempt to feel better? Isn’t that gluttonous of me? How much money will I spend? What sort of luxurious environment do I expect?
Maybe it’s my parents’ hateful voices in my head. Maybe it’s all of America in it’s judgement, jealousy and blame. Maybe it’s the Christian church, telling me that living anything more than a humble extreme minimalist life is wrong.
I’m pretty tired of it all.
I just want relief.
This life I live, this isn’t my life. Maybe that’s why it hurts so much and feels so empty to be alive. Because I can’t get joy or meaning from a life that isn’t mine. Where I can’t express myself. Or act out what’s inside of me on the inside. Or be seen for who I am. All my life really is is a desperate search for escape from pain and illness. That’s all I really am. And then what? What’s the point in that?
One day I’ll find peace. And I think it will be before I die.
One day I’ll know happiness. Actually that’s a lot harder to imagine than finding peace. Although I’ve often thought that I’ll find peace by finding happiness. That finding things that bring joy would help me find relief or comfort from pain. But I’ve grown out of thinking like that. Now I just feel like I need to get rid of the pain itself.