“You coming to bed yet?” my wife Megan asks. “Don’t feel like it” I told her.
Night is a strange time for me. The darkness is comforting to me. I think it’s the feeling of being hidden, cloaked from the rest of the world. This blanket of black covers my insecurities and illnesses up, making me blank. But in the dark, sadness remains. That’s never going away. But at least nothing and no one can see this ugliness. I enjoy silence in the early hours of a morning. It’s quiet, and untainted by noise or talk. I can enjoy the flicker of a candle on the bed stand as I write this, without interruption. I may play some music if I choose to. Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.
One thing is for certain: the writing “mood” strikes hard in the late hours. It always has for me anyways. Something about the nothingness, the dark corners, the silence, all of it, seems to spark a fire in me.
All my life, I’ve always felt different. I certainly don’t feel that I am your typical male. I don’t compulsively look to add notches to the belt, I don’t feel the need to start trouble to entertain myself, and I no longer feel the need to make friends. I honestly believe that I’m too far out for a lot of people. I’ve met maybe two people who understood where I’m coming from. And I don’t see them anymore, so…yeah. I suppose it could be my illnesses that contribute to my weirdness. I don’t remember everything they’ve diagnosed me with, but the few I do remember are : Borderline Personality Disorder, Depression, High Anxiety, and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Sometimes I’ll use a site called blahtherapy and talk with other people anonymously about my problems, and vice versa. For the most part, the site really helps. Sometimes it can be disheartening to spend a good hour talking to someone on there just for them to suddenly disconnect from the conversation because they don’t knw what to say once you’ve spewed out your issues and whatnot. Some of them just flat out can’t believe that that all happened to one person. It’s like trying to tell someone that your house burnt down on Christmas morning, nobody will believe it because it sounds too sad to be true or something and people just assume you’re making it up to get a pat on the back. But it did absolutely happen, to me and my family, thirteen some years ago. Just like all the shit that’s happened to me, has really happened. But it’s not like I don’t understand.
But anyways, like I was saying, I’ve always felt like I was different. Even when I tried or do try to be apart of the crowd, I still feel so unexplainably out of place. If there is a place or group of people with whom I truly fit in with, I’ve yet to find it or them. The closest group of people I’ve found easiest to get along with are Juggalos, which if you don’t know what they are, google it because it takes too much explaining. But I don’t run into too many where I live, and any I do find just give me a whoop whoop and they’re on their way. I understand though. People got things to do, little time to sit around and make friends.
I’ve always felt like I’d be good on a Paranormal Exploration team. Like go into haunted places and record findings or whatever. But that’s been done to the death now, and probably isn’t much room for anything new in that field. I could see my self working at a used CD store, but those are becoming somewhat of an oddity nowadays, since all anyone ever does anymore is steal music off the internet. Not me though. I like having the CD, the case, the booklet, all of it. I’m a collector. I enjoy that stuff.