2008-07-04 - 4:29 p.m.
When Jack Fails...
I have been having trouble writing again.
Somehow, I can not be honest with myself.
I can not get close enough.
I won't let myself in.
I am that angry inside. That hostile and secretive. I just keep pushing myself away. And it only makes me more desperate. To get something out. Anything.
But the editor is waiting there, ready to stab my thoughts through the soft spot in my skull, before they are even fully born.
Not being able to write has been making me want to hurt myself.
At least I could get it out. Even if only symbollicly. It would be so red, salty and stream of consciousness. There would be no way to feel what I did was not good enough, or that I had done it wrong.
My blood just is.
Mine.
Me at my most human. Human as in physical, mental and spiritual. Complete.
It would almost take me back to that dark childhood afternoon in the basement, making blood art.
So proud of myself.
Until the adult shame and nausea set in.
Then I would turn it around on myself. I did this to make myself sick. On purpose. I did it to hurt, upset, shame and punish myself. Punish myself for not being good enough. For not being able to get it out any other way.
When creative fails, destruction is still there.
Destruction is always there.
Always in the background.
Always a part of me.
Sometimes I am so overwhelmed, over come, overflowing with this repressed violence.
My words fail me. I fail myself.
I become worthless and unwanted.
And I can not seem to redeem myself.
I can not be honest with myself, because I am afraid to be.
I murder everything I say before even really listening to it.
Until I just want to give up on myself.
Everything I do is wrong. Nothing is good enough.
I become so consumed, and critical that I can not even see anymore. Maybe that is why I have been dreaming of blindness, and having trouble seeing.
I don't know what is good and what is bad. What has value and what is worthless. I wish I could say that none of it was worthless, but I know that is a lie.
I don't even know myself.
I don't even see myself.
I am convinced and decided that nothing I do meets my standards, simply because it is mine.
It is the hardest place to get out of.
And a place that I am finding myself in more and more often.
One day I might just give up and stay there.
I have done it before.
I could do it again.
Only this time with everything.
I don't even want to imagine the terrible, devastating sense of liberation and relief. That I am finally dead and can stop judging myself.
It would be suicide without suicide.
It would probably bring me that much closer to the real thing.
There would be nothing to do but play with my gun all day.
It would be the only thing left that made me feel.
Jack Has Had Enough - 2008-06-20
Jack Is Tired Of The Human Condition - 2008-04-11
What Jack Should Be Doing And Where He Should Be - 2008-04-11
Jack Finally Sees His Therapist (2) - 2008-04-01
