Therapy — The Never-Ending Fail

It sucks to have a counselor who doesn’t understand disabling chronic illness or neurological illness. Am I the only chronic who struggles with therapy?

It sucks to have a counselor who doesn’t understand multicultural issues. Or narcissistic personality disorder. Or chronic depersonalization and derealization disorder.

I know it’s hard to find a counselor who specializes in one of these issues, let alone all of them. So I try to be patient. I figure I don’t have to try to explain all of these things to them because it would take forever and even then they wouldn’t understand, most likely. (Do I have to explain my bizarre family? How my parents just don’t function like parents or anything close to a normal person? That there isn’t much to my dad other than that he’s an a—— with a missing personality? How profanity still makes me flinch and look over my shoulder even as an adult? How none of it will ever add up or make sense no matter how much you look at it? Do I have to explain who much my illness has affected my life and ability to function? What poverty is like with chronic illness? What isolation is like? Why I struggle with employment? How my illness directly affects my mood and emotions? How I’ve always struggled with connecting with people? How I’m wary about talking to people much due to past negative experiences? How amnesia and neurological problems makes it hard to put the pieces together of who I was and what actually happened in my life?)

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t explain it all in a counseling session.

So I end up leaving things out. They can’t understand. For some reason, they think they can. Is it not arrogant of counselors to think they can understand all of another person’s life, or is it just me? I feel like they should just be there to guide you in working through things yourself while accepting that they’re not ever going to know your full story.

I think I end up frustrating my therapists because I think this way and function this way.

“Okay, okay, you want to help me make a Hollywood movies out of my strange, f—- up life?” I want to say that. I feel like people understand things much better if they see it acted out in a movie than if they’re just told it in a counseling session.

Counseling is awkward.

I really do want to make a movie or two about my life. I need some way to tell my story. That would help me. I really want to flesh out my story. Is that weird?

Life makes no sense, at least not the way we’re expected to live it. All these things happen, then we’re supposed to pretend they never happened. Live for the moment. Live in the moment. Everything else is dead. Everything else has died. We only exist in the moment.

But I can’t live in this moment, somehow. There’s the explosion of activity and chaos in the first few decades of my life versus the quiet of this room. And, nothing to draw my attention in the present moment.

Nothing. Nothing seems to draw my attention in the present moment. I just don’t care. I’m flying through life and never landing. Floating through it like it’s not happening. Like it never happened. Because I don’t care. Because I can’t seem to get myself to care. (I’m not sure how much of this is due to derealization disorder.)

No weddings. No funerals. Just busywork.

I just want to feel warm and fed. That’s the only real goal in my life. If my body temperature gets off, everything gets thrown off, thanks to dysautonomia (body has trouble regulating temperature on its own).

That’s my goal. That’s my life goal. That’s all life is about. Or at least it feels that way.

I wish there was more people in my life, partly to add some more color or life to my life. All I have is my plants and some wall decor to try to bring some life here.

Big projects feel like the only thing I can do to do more with my life. I have a difficult time keeping up with big projects like I did before my illness. I’ve learned that if I start something, I won’t finish it, so I just don’t start things anymore. It’s partly because I have way too many other things on my mind due to illness. Illness is a constant battle and a full-time job.

I have a horrible urge to paint the walls of my room. To make it less bland and more joyful. Less quiet. More compelling.

The point of all this is that I don’t know how to approach therapy.

Where do I start?

I really just want to unearth something in therapy, not have to explain my whole life.

And how do I explain the nothing that devours me? The nothing of the present moment, that only turns into more nothing if I forget everything I am and everything that happened in my past? In my past, there was a whole world. Now that world is gone and replaced by a small empty room.

Now I’m just a ghost that wanders the world, lost, with unfinished business.

Maybe I am really dead. I can’t help but at least think of this as some sort of pseudo-death.

Oh yeah, I was numb during the most tragic and traumatic events of my life. So I don’t even feel much emotion when I think of them. How am I supposed to explain that in therapy? I can’t even explain it to myself.

Therapy is lame. I feel like I’m going to a counselor who only expects me to have had a few years of life experience under my belt and lots of immaturity. Instead I have lots of years of tragedy and lots of coldness. The coldness that comes with having seen too much. The ultimate form of maturity.

I hate being talked to like I’m 2 years old. When a counselor assumes all your problems are relationship problems. Or that being unemployed is a choice. Or that you’re too young to have much to talk about.

When I think about it, I feel like my therapist must’ve drank through a good chunk of his life, just from the way he talks about life and the assumptions he makes about other people’s lives. Life is simple when you’re drunk because you can’t remember much of it so it’s not like much happened.

I’m just rambling.

He doesn’t seem like the drinking type.

But he does seem simple. Normal. Basic.

Not Aspergian.

Not foreign.

Just a regular white American guy who’ll have a normal career and retire one day. Maybe a wife. Some sort of hobbies. Watches TV in his free time, maybe reads on occasion. Lots of pride in his career. In fact uses his career as his only source of identity and self-worth. Life is simple.

He doesn’t know what it’s like to float above this life and look down at it from a distance, wondering what it’s all about.

He does think he knows me. Just from the first meeting, he already thinks he’s got it all down.

I’ll be honest, it irritates me a little.

To be fair, I already noticed that he had a weird tendency to draw possibly erroneous or unfounded conclusions about people from the first meeting.

Hmm, just a normal girl, no tattoos. Appears Caucasian.

I can imagine that’s all he thought about me. He knew it all. My narc radar gets set off when I’m around people like that. Narcissists I’ve known could know you for several years and still not know you. It gets weird. How can you possibly know someone for several years and still not know them? I had a friend like that, and our relationship felt completely pointless. He didn’t feel like a friend at all.

When I mentioned to my therapist that not much of my life is normal, he said that we had to work on making it more normal.

Oh dear.

When I said “not normal”, he interpreted as meaning something is wrong, like some sort of problem in my life that needed to be worked on. Huh? Maybe there’s a language barrier here?

I can’t really “work on” my race, my culture. I can’t change my family or make them normal. I can’t make my illness go away or change who I’ve become because of it.

Language barriers seem to abound in therapy. I say one thing, he hears another. Lots of barriers, period. Too many barriers. Do we have to do this talk thing? I don’t have the stamina for this incredible mountain.

He complained that I don’t explain enough about the details of my life to him. Like details about my father. Wtf, is that important now? Is there something I’m missing or not understanding here?

When I told him there’s too much to explain and too much to talk about, he started going into a rant about prioritizing.

He told me to pick one thing and just focus on that.

Wtf, did he just contradict himself? Does he want the details about my father or does he just want me to focus on the most important thing?

I’m annoyed.

I do sometimes notice circular logic and contradictions in his speech. But I just figured he just didn’t realize what he was saying or something

Why does he care about my father anyway? What does he want to know?


We had already established that my dad was pretty absent and kept to himself. You’d think that would be the end of any curiosity.

Maybe we just have different opinions on what’s important.

Reminds me a little too much of conversations with narcissists that leave you a little too confused as to wtf they’re thinking and why they say the things or draw the conclusions they do (usually it’s to egg you on, pigeonhole you, or make you feel like you’ve done something wrong). The reason this is different is because he’s not the first therapist to say this. I guess they expect me to walk in there, all loquacious and caffeinated, but instead my brain works super-slow and I can barely get words out. Hooray for neurological illness. (But of course, in therapy, it’s considered low self-esteem if you say you have an illness, and they have to change that.)

At least my brain works fast enough to recognize his contradictory statements.

His sometimes counter-productive logic.

His seemingly superficial understanding of psychological concepts such as trauma.

His difficulty with complex thought and disorganized speech.

His oversimplification of seemingly everything.

Funny, because when I used the words “complex” and “complicated” to describe my life, he for some reason thought I meant that I had some tough problems to deal with or something.

It’s as if he completely lost the context of what I was saying. I had literally said life is too complex to explain it all.

New Year’s Eve. I’ve Learned How to Not Celebrate. Any Holiday.

After not being able to celebrate most holidays for several years, I’ve learned to accept not having anything to look forward to and to no memories being made.

For better or worse, I am one with the nothingness.

The silence. The deadness.

I have become accustomed to it to where I don’t dread it or feel sad about it anymore. To where I don’t even notice that something is missing anymore. The entire year is just a never-ending blur of nothingness.

Still, the emptiness gets to me, even if not consciously aware of it. So does all the other pain over the years. It’s vague, always running in the back of my head but never expressing itself fully.

I think I may have learned to make use of this holiday.

I cried this year. I was able to cry, and that is a huge blessing.

I could cry because I could remember how it was to feel good. The be somewhere to where things are okay. And to contrast it with my ugly and painful reality.

When I cry, it washes away all the horrible feelings. It washes away my current reality.

I could cry about my mom’s twisted logic, her twisted love and the way it confuses me and brings the false hope of safety and happiness.

Like a dirty plate that needs to be cleaned, I just want to wash it all away with my tears.

There no other way. No solution. No escape from my life. The only options are to be numb or cry. And I’m so tired of being numb and trying to problem-solve my way out of life by trying to be less disabled by my illness. I’d rather cry.

I can’t problem-solve my way out, because I’m looking at the wrong problem. As much as I find solutions to my disabilities, I won’t be able to change my life. My life will stay the same.

I’ll still be alone on holidays. And every day. I’ll still have no identity. I’ll still be easily forgotten, left behind. I’ll still be too poor to do anything worthwhile with my life. I’ll still live with the pain of having to share a space with people who have no boundaries who make me feel suffocated and unsafe.

I want to be free.

Free to get the things I need. The things I want. To pursue happiness.

I can’t do that.

I can’t pursue much of anything. I’m still always back at square one no matter what I do.

Everything I do leads nowhere. Ever solution I try to come up with solves nothing.

All I can do is cry. Perhaps, this is the gift the holiday brings. The holiday acts as a reminder to feel something. To stop thinking so hard. Just accept it and grieve what will never be.

To cry is maybe the closest in life you’ll get to feeling okay. To not feeling dead and weak. To not feeling numb. Imagine joy and grieve it. Feel alive. Less stuck in the vexing unsolvable problems in your head.

No more thoughts. No more words. Just feel.

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.

Today’s a Good Day

Those were my thoughts a couple hours ago. Things were working relatively smoothly in my body. I felt great. I was feeling optimistic about recovery from my illness and bodily dysfunction. That I could just feel good. That things could be okay.

I still feel okay now after a few hours, although not as great as I was earlier. I’m working on soothing my body, which for the most part means trying to normalize my body temperature.

I have clarity that I don’t usually have. My brain function has deteriorated further and further over the years. It used to be just simple problems with attention and memory, but it got to where it was just hard to finish a sentence or a thought. Everything felt like pushing a wheelbarrow across rocks and gravel. Everything became more difficult and confusing. And with that, your sensations deteriorate as does your feelings and your values.

This song means the world to me right now. And I’m glad that right now I am able to experience what it means to me with clarity:

And it’s beautiful. Things feel beautiful to me right now. Although not as beautiful as they did to me a couple hours ago. My wheelbarrow got a little more rickety since then.

But in general, when your brain works, things make sense. Everything you do flows out of you more smoothly. You don’t feel confusion. Everything is graceful.

When it doesn’t, things don’t. Everything feels wrong. Your life feels wrong. Your plans feel wrong. Because you can’t make sense of anything. Because you can’t find clarity.

Am I my illness?

Am I stupid, slow, confused?


Should I take that all as part of who I am? Because I always have. I’ve been this way for so long.

I always thought of it as, I want to be someone else, not me.

I am the illness. I want to be someone without illness. Someone amazing. Someone graceful. With peace flowing though my body. I was born an awkward kid. Unattractive, unappealing. So who am I supposed to see myself as?

I’d rather not think about who my “self” is. I don’t want to think of my self. If I feel good and I’m happy, that’s all that matters. I hate these labels, these images. It’s all about my experience, not who I am to the outside world.


I’m also not overwhelmed by my environment right now. No noticeable sensory issues.

Powerlessness and Resignation

“It’s not that bad. What can you expect out of life anyway? Not that much. And everyone’s in pain, sick, miserable, etc. You’re just having such high expectations out of life. No one really lives these days anyway. You’re lucky compared to others, blah blah, blah.” These are often the thoughts in my head.

But then I find myself just wanting to “turn off” in some sense. I realize I can’t fight ill health and weakness to get strength in my body. I can’t fight the people who take advantage of me and cross my boundaries. I can’t just live my life or have possession of my own body, life, and soul. Very little of it feels like it is mine. My life is not mine to live or have control of.

So, I think of turning off.

What do I mean by “turning off”? Resigning. Not allowing myself to imagine a wonderful life, or at least not allowing myself to feel what a wonderful life would feel like. My fantasies become more dull. I don’t feel excitement in my fantasies. I feel more stoic. My goals are dulled as a result because I can’t imagine much and goals lose their significance. It’s like the life feels sucked out of everything. My fantasies become as depersonalized as I feel due to my depersonalization disorder.

But by “turning off”, I also mean that I resign in my actions as well. I decide to go into energy conservation mode, to hibernate. This isn’t pleasant. It isn’t fun. But it keeps me from getting my hopes up.

Truth is that I want to feel free. I want to go places and do things. To see things. To meet people. To have people around that I can interact with, whose company I can share. But in a positive way, not a drama-filled way. Just a simple, innocent way.

I want to be around life.

I want to be alive. I want to feel alive.

I don’t want to be cut off from life by poverty and dysautonomia, illness and fatigue.

But I also want to avoid the unpleasant things, which add up. Somehow it’s hard to avoid all the unpleasantness. I’m not sure if it’s because illness makes things more unpleasant or if I’d always find those things unpleasant.

By “things” I want to avoid, I mean people who are unpleasant, noxious environments, etc. They’re everything I don’t want in life.

But when I realize how powerless I am, it’s like a switch gets flipped. The lights get turned off in my psyche.

I can’t attain a pleasant life.

I can’t avoid an unpleasant life.

I can crawl into a ball, shut down, and wait for it to pass. Sometimes that’s all I can do. Options are limited when you can’t go anywhere, have no spending money, and have little genuine love or support outside of common niceties.

I wish I was loved. I wish I was lovable.

Screw life.

I don’t know why we put up with this. I don’t know why anyone puts up with it.

I don’t know why anyone thinks we should put up with it. People try to create meaning out of nothing with all their philosophies, world-plays and flowery words. But maybe deep down inside they know the truth, underneath all their flowery words.

Trying to tone down self-compassion and deny your feelings by telling yourself that you’re lucky compared to others isn’t going to make you feel better. It’s just depressing. It’s just accepting something you shouldn’t accept. And acceptance is resignation.

Breath. Allow the life to flow. Don’t stop breathing.

And go for a walk. Stretch out, expand your world.

Oh, wait. There’s nowhere to go. And you can’t get very far before you feel light-headed, mentally impaired, and have used up your physical resources. The lack of destination and dysautonomia keep me from getting up to go outside, even for a little while. I just don’t have the strength or enthusiasm to walk when there’s nowhere to go. I wish I could drive. I wish I could afford things once I got to my destination if I could drive.

Yeah, everyone will hate this post, because everyone wants me to act happy for them.

Screw people.

We are alone.

Who We Are, What We Are

Sometimes, I feel like a rock in the vast, empty desert. But unfortunately, I’m a rock that can feel and be aware. I am aware that there’s nothing living in sight. I feel the vast emptiness around me. I am aware that I am a rock. Just a quiet thing that blends in with the lifelessness around me.

This goes on, moment after moment, breath after breath. The past is full of breathless lifelessness. The present is full of endless lifelessness. The future seems like it doesn’t matter because nothing is going to happen anyway. What happens in the desert? Nothing.

There is nothing to feel, nothing meaningful to remember or care about. What am I? What is my life?

Life is short. It doesn’t seem that way. Sometimes, we are aware of every excruciating moment. But in the grand scheme of things, there isn’t much to be said about all those years of life. After we’re gone, there will only be a few words to be said about us. No one talks about what happened moment to moment, whether we were alone, whether anything had meaning, whether we merely existed.

As a rock, it seems that I am nothing. It seems wrong for me to be alive so long, for all of these moments, all of these breaths, alone and not part of anything. The sheer pointless of my existence is overwhelming. Hour after empty hour. Year after year after empty year.

But I’m ultimately those few words at that end that describe a person’s life. “She lived a long empty life.” And that doesn’t sound much worse than, “He did this or that with his life.” The moments don’t count. What was happening in those moments don’t count. What you felt in those moments don’t count. The only thing that counts is that it’s not actually what you wanted to do or what you were happy about.

How about, “She struggled to find something meaningful in life so that she could find motivation, drive and purpose to work towards a specific goal or to care about anything at all so that she could be motivated to do anything at all.”

If I Was Pretty

I didn’t used to see the point of appearances. I never thought too hard about what I looked like. I just lived my life.

But after getting used to a life of near-isolation for several years, the concept feels different to me.

I kind of wish I was pretty. I mean, I always wish I was pretty but didn’t care that much. But now, it more feels almost like a need. A need, as in, “Who am I, if I’m ugly?” A need, as in, “What’s the point in my existence?” Well, it’s hard to say what exactly the thoughts are underneath it all, but it’s something like that. Really, it’s just that empty feeling and the sense that I need something beautiful to replace that.

My whole life is a blur. My existence is a blur. My identity is a blur if I even have an identity at all. (Brain fog, amnesia, and depersonalization might play a role in all that.) It’s painfully been like that for as long as I can remember. The emptiness is crushing.

And confusing.

Confusing because it’s hard to make plans or have goals or envision a future when there is no me and no life. There’s nothing there. So what’s the point?

It’s confusing.

My face is as formless as my life is, as my self is. My imploding, empty world. My face looks mucky, just like the world around me feels, just like my life.

Really, this isn’t about being pretty. It’s about living. I see pictures of women who are pretty, and it makes me, on some level, imagine they have this beautiful life. That they’ll fall in love. Maybe have children. Or maybe they’ll just hang out with girlfriends and do girly things.

Not that living life on a computer screen isn’t living.

But there’s something different about being out in the real world, around live, three-dimensional people.

I wish I was pretty because then I could imagine my life headed somewhere.

Right now, I have nothing, no career, no skills, and virtually no identity. I have no life to look forward to if I did become well enough to function and make money, go places and do things freely, etc.

There’s something more compelling about the fantasy of being pretty, having friends I can have fun with, being able to fall in love with someone who’ll fall in love with me.

Is this what life is about? I don’t know what this life is about, really. I can’t feel much.

Maybe if I could feel more, I’d see things different, I’d understand what life is about. I can’t feel much because I still feels horrible just to stand up. My brain gets scrambled really easily from almost any activity. The body pain and mental confusion overpowers enjoyment of activities. Maybe others with dysautonomia know what I’m talking about.

The fantasy of having a nice career seems to have disappeared from my mind. It seems too far out of reach, maybe. Or maybe the concept never really felt fulfilling. But being pretty seems closer to being possible. Maybe if I just change or add this or that, do a couple tweaks, I can be pretty. Even if I was, it’s doubtful that much good would come of my life or anything would change, but who knows? It would make me more positive or optimistic about a future that realistically probably doesn’t exist. Or at least it would make me feel that way for a little while, until I realize that things still aren’t going to change. I’ll still be alone, poor and housebound with no point to my existence and apathy towards life.

When People Tell You You Have No Right to Complain

I don’t know how dumb a person has to be to think that they can assume what it’s like to be another person.

If a person says something like, “I’m sorry, but other people have it worse. You have no right to complain,” to someone they don’t know then they either have brain damage, have lived in a cult their whole lives, or are playing stupid just to be a troll. (What kind of argument is, “Other people have it worse therefore your experience of life is completely negated”??)

The horrible truth is that, even though I know the person likely has some cognitive difficulty or is just a troll or bully, it still affects me negatively.

It’s partly because we need people. And if the whole world is cold and lacking in empathy, then people who are outspoken in their cold-heartedness are just another reminder that we are completely alone as well as unloved.

But also, I guess the truth is that something deep down inside me wants to side with their negation of anyone else who has to suffer through life. Something inside me is way too exhausted and just wants a troll to tear me apart, to throw me over the edge. I’m so tired of this life, and I need an excuse. I need these trolls to really prove, once and for all, that you can quit trying, that the world does not support you and will not offer help, love or compassion. To stop holding onto hope or just simply holding on while waiting in agony and getting exhausted by every move you make, every attempt to be somewhere in life. I’m tired of just being a foot past the edge, holding my breath, feeling nothing but feeling the oxygen deprivation build up inside me while feeling the tension build up in my body. I just want to be somewhere, not just teetering over the edge. I just want to fall over. It feels better to quit telling myself I’m satiated when I really just need food.

I’m tired of knowing no oasis exists for me in this world, dragging myself through a never-ending mess of filth. But telling myself, “It’s okay,” the whole time. “Everything’s okay. Things are okay. Life is okay. You are so lucky.” But feeling nothing the whole time.

Holding my breath. Holding my breath.

I’m tired of having no excuse to say much of anything because I feel nothing.

When someone says something cold-hearted, it’s like they’ve just proven to you that all human empathy is a joke. The world’s just laughing at you. No one is ever going to be there for you. They say it with confidence and determination, “I’ll tell you when it’s okay to feel bad and when you should just shut up and smile! There are no excuses, no reason that I will allow you to voice your needs or feelings!”

The pure lack of empathy and compassion is horrifying. Is this how all fortunate, happy people think about people less fortunate than them??

Honestly, when I think of some people I knew who had this sort of attitude, they were usually dishonest and self-centered people who never had any big problems last long in their lives because they’d lie, steal, or cheat to get what they needed. (Or they’d lie, steal, and cheat to get things they didn’t even need.) Those were the types of people who were quick to judge people who were unhappy, suffering or struggling. They seemed to have a sense of disgust for anyone who had to suffer.

Do people live in such a happy-go-lucky world that they are truly oblivious to the needs and suffering of people around them? Yes, apparently they do. They’re the calm, content people laughing at you. The pretty people who are well-fed, loved and always taken care of who never had a reason to fight. Or the people who vomit every day to stay skinny but don’t see the tragedy in it.

Life is constant suffering and it doesn’t have to be that way. It shouldn’t be that way. Just because someone is starving somewhere else doesn’t mean it makes it okay for other people to suffer because they aren’t as skinny or have more food to eat. Doesn’t mean it’s all of a sudden fine that other people have to go through what they go through. It’s still wrong. It’s all bad. One more person starving doesn’t mean you don’t have a right to feel good.

But it’s funny, because that’s what people really believe. Whoever is the poorest, that’s the only person that matters. If you’re slightly less poor, than you don’t matter. You better get yourself to be as poor as them so that you have a right to complain and people will care and quit comparing you to the next person who’s worse off than you. It’s like a competition for who’s worst off. If you’re not the worst off, then you get no love or compassion so you better shoot yourself. The world will only scorn if you are honest.

Still Can’t See a Point to Being Alive for People Who Don’t Get to Feel Alive

I can pet cats. That’s nice.

I can watch youtube videos of animals or babies. That’s nice.

It’s okay, really. It’s okay. It’s comforting when you’re sick or in pain or your nervous system won’t behave.

So, you’re comforted. Now what? Sleep is also comforting. The absence of living, waking life is comforting. So what? If anything, it’s all more like a drug that gives you a reprieve, a drug you need all the time to help deal with pain, sickness and discomfort. But is that what cute animals are put on this earth for?

This post is about more than just that. But it’s my attempt at providing an illustration of this concept: What’s the point in being alive if you can’t feel alive? You can try to think of all the nice things and try to offer them as answers, but they don’t really answer the question.

Maybe this is something only people with depersonalization or chronic dissociation understand. Or people who are living in poverty, isolation, housebound, etc can understand.

You can’t do much with your life, so what? You can celebrate your small achievements, but so what? It gets tiring after a while.

Day 1: Yay, I brushed my teeth.

Day 2: Yay, I did it again.

Day 3: I just don’t care anymore.

Okay, I accomplish bigger things than brushing my teeth, but that’s just an example of how boring and pointless things get to be. Even the bigger things I accomplish don’t seem to get me anywhere and land me back at this same place. And I’ll forget them all, anyway.

And maybe I just don’t know because I’ve had depersonalization for such a long time, I can’t at all remember what “normal” feels like.

The point is, are we supposed to philosophize meaning? I mean, to try to create meaning out of nothing when we can’t feel anything?

It just gets to be a joke to try to think that way after a while. And really just makes the dissociation worse trying to intellectualize meaning because it’s not how you really feel.

What I really feel, is that I’m just sitting here waiting for something to come along in my life, that will give me some spark and make it all worthwhile. I’m waiting for something fun to happen. I’m waiting to really feel alive. I’ve tried pursuing it, but learned that it just doesn’t work that way. It’s really not worth it. The best things happen when you least expect it, not when you’re looking for it.

So I’m just sitting here waiting.

I get antsy. I just try to hold onto okay. Things are okay. I can handle this. Things are okay. I can handle this… Day after day.

I’m just barely existing. I’m just barely a person.

I used to have more brain fog, and things have gotten better. I am more aware of things and more clear-headed. But that just makes me more aware of the nothingness. It’s almost like brain fog was fun compared to this. It kept me preoccupied, albeit in a painful and unpleasant way.

I have a million ideas in my head of things I can do. I can’t do all of them. I can do some of them, but none of them feels like much of anything. Just more things to do. More drivel. Maybe one of them will lead me somewhere. Do I google ____? Do I go on this forum? Should I try ___?

I guess that’s why it’s so hard for me to do physical therapy exercises that I’m supposed to do. It just all feels like it’s leading nowhere. Deep down inside, I can’t get any feeling of satisfaction from doing it.

So here I am writing on my blog. It’s a little fun. But it really just feels like procrastination, like I’m not accomplishing anything.

Who Would I Be If It Weren’t for Illness

I feel like there is so much I wish I could do with my life if I had the time, energy and resources. (Time, energy and resources that have been consumed by illness.)

I say things to myself sometimes like, illness made me who I am. Illness taught me a lot of valuable lessons. I’m proud of the knowledge I have now. But in reality, it all makes me depressed, as much as those may sound like positive statements, I don’t feel especially great about them.

I’d rather be saying something like, that failed relationship taught me a lot and it had both its ups and downs.

Or, that trip to Europe had its mishaps but there was both beauty and failure during it.

Instead, I just have a lot of dry, empty years of life that were painful, numb, or missing. And everything I’ve gained from it is pretty dry albeit exciting in a dry way. Exciting the way an encyclopedia is exciting, without the pretty pictures.
Which, really, might be some people’s cup of tea. It just isn’t mine. It’s not my identity. It’s not who I’d be or how I’d live if I had the choice.

Who would I be without illness?

Well, this is all hypothetical. I feel that without illness, I’d still have responsibilities and social pressures holding me back from being who I really want to be, realistically. So let’s keep it hypothetical.

But let’s start with hair. I’d have a lot of fun with my hair.

And clothes.

And I’d go somewhere warm on occasion. I’d have the energy and I’d afford to.

I wouldn’t hold onto anything that made me feel bogged down, including friends. I’d have friends that brought out the free spirit in me or, if I had no one like that, I wouldn’t hang out with any friends at all. I’d let myself be my only influence so that people wouldn’t bring me down. Becauseā€¦that stuff makes me feel depressed. That’s just how I am. (Or is that a sign that something’s wrong with me? Either way, I don’t care. I just want to be me. It’s the only way I know to find something worth living for.)

I’d go to Europe, either temporarily and permanently. Even though, right now, the thought of travel seems exhausting, I can imagine that without illness it would be stress-free and enjoyable. Fun.

I wouldn’t have to worry so much about cold, callous people anymore because I wouldn’t need them.

I would surround myself with beauty and cleanliness.

I wouldn’t be desperate.

I could be myself, uncensored, in public. (Illness has taught me that it’s not okay to be honest about what you feel, what you believe in, or what is going on in your life.) I wouldn’t be afraid of making mistakes or saying the wrong thing. It would be okay if I did, not the end of the world.

I would avoid the people who make me feel miserable or who I clash with. I would minimize my time with them and only spend time around people who are pleasant. I would stick with my clan, my people. People who understand me and share similar values and enjoy life in the same way as I do.

I would feel free to move, to breath. I would be able to do the things I need to do to get where I want to be without it hurting too much.

I would forget about all the people who hurt me or were cold-hearted to me as if they never existed. I would quit hearing their unpleasant voices and the unpleasant memories with them.

I would be free. Free of everything that shackles me. Free of people that drag me down. Free of environments that I feel chained to. Free to move. Free to live. No regret. I could pursue beauty and happiness without needing to drag an unpleasant person to help me get there.

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