twysted about thereabouts

The music is too loud.

I have to do things a certain way.

My head aches and the music pounds it into a workable rhythm.

The computer is throwing out an eclectic mix.

I’m complacent at the moment but something inside is stirring.

The pity patter of guilty feet…

The piety of no small feet…

The parity was not to be…

The piracy of normalcy…

There’s a demon loose in my house.

I must flush it out if I am to be free of it.

You see they all lurk in the recesses.

In the darkness and quiet they must be stalked.

This is what it feels like to go crazy.

Seeing it lurking in my family history and feeling my world coming apart at the seams.

I know it’s come for me.

I will fight it to my bitter end, no doubt.

I shall record whatever information I can along the way, as long as my wits allow me.

I shall enjoy it for its shortcomings and try to maximize my unraveling wherever possible.

Should I not make it, somewhere along the way someone will find this and maybe someone will get something out of whatever this is.

notation no edit journalistic

Tangible.  I am sleeping on a real mattress with springs and everything.  Albeit it’s on a frame made from a full sized bed frame and a full sized futon metal bar frame.  It serves well enough as a box support for the time being.  SO…despite having been on 2 futon mattresses for 7 months, they were on a frame, and so is the mattress.  I have yet to end up on a mattress on the floor.  I don’t know why that is a benchmark I have sought to avoid over others, but it is.  Truth is I don’t even necessarily judge anyone on a mattress on the floor in a negative light, I get it.  The point is, it is one benchmark of being poor that I did not reach…

This isn’t a request for pity.  It is merely an observation.  This shit is profound to me, and I intend to garner something from the experience, and note some kind of data along the way regardless of outcome.    

Macabre (no edit whatsoever)raw

A suicide note:

In parts.

March 8^th and 9th 2013.

                I can feel it coming.  I think there is a strong chance that I will kill myself fairly soon.  I can feel it, not wanting to live anymore.  A complacent ‘can go on’ attitude replaces it from time to time, but it’s like a shark swimming around in my head…back around and biting and back around and biting.  The why bother killing machine.  I keep telling myself a variety of cutting angles to pour over the same confusion.  So many negatives coming together at the same time, like spears through the reserve bucket, until all you’re left with is all you’ve got.  You live, and you keep trying to refill that fucking bucket, but any resources you pour in it spill out the damn holes.

                I am fairly certain I have settled on the exhaust pipe.  I can pop a melatonin and nod out in the back seat listening to music and just never wake up.  I’ll need to do a test run with a battery operated carbon monoxide detector and whatever kind of apparatus I guinea rig up to deliver the fumes.  Nothing says loser like a failed suicide attempt.

                I don’t want to die.  Christ I can picture an idyllic life.  I would build a small structure, and build on it as I lived.  Two acres max, which in fucking Maine isn’t that big.  Music a few close friends and a peaceful go to work, work on the house, and hear some stories kind of life.  I try to picture what job I’ll be doing, I can see myself  with my current employer, but can’t really picture a solid ‘job’.  It gets blurry and hazy here.  I don’t know what I want to do.  I can exist where I’m working but the more I feel it the more I don’t think I want to work here forever, there’s too much bullshit.  Then I realize that the perception of bullshit is on me.  I am simply too unbalanced to deal with bullshit.  True I have made it to jobs with respectable wages and benefits and somehow always manage to self sabotage something, somewhere.  I am callously indifferent to feeling, afraid to put anything toward anything, because I know that I can’t maintain it, I know I will fuck it up.

                I know I’m going crazy.  I don’t know if it’s a side effect of all the stress or the underlying cause of it.  Either way I am trying desperately to find a way to get back into the real world and reduce the stress and somehow see if that is enough to move ahead for a little while.  Secretly knowing my days of pulling normal off have grown fewer and further between as time has progressed.  What’s causing it?  Is it me, is it treatable?  Not that I can afford it anyway. So what do I do, employ my limited resources and fairly decent mental abilities to solving a problem and hope I can keep myself together long enough to get by.  In the meantime it is necessary to have a back-up plan.  A comforting respite if I find that I really can’t deal with it and to find a somewhat dignified way to recover whatever bountiful posterity I might have.  To go out as someone who did the best they could and lost it, rather than someone who lost it, and lived a hateful jaded, and unfulfilling life.

                Stay tuned, I can honestly say I have no emotion towards either outcome.