Addiction runs pretty deep in my family. I’m surprised I wasn’t born with a bottle in my left hand, a meth pipe in my right, and a cigarette behind my ear.
So it’s not a shocker I’m either on or thinking about technology twenty four hours a day. I suppose it’s better than inventing a creative way to kill myself or worrying that the slight ache in my calf is a blood clot or the thumping behind my eyes is a brain tumor. I don’t even like typing this shit.
Technology is a good escape. I find connections with technology more satisfying than connections with people. If I’m on my desktop, I need to have my phone playing a video on YouTube as background noise to drown out my wandering thoughts. It’s like I never stop thinking. As good as it is for school, it sucks ass when I’m trying to relax. I don’t even know the definition of relax. My shoulders are always tense, my teeth are always clenched, my muscles are always twitching.
I wish I could be comfortable in my mind, but I can’t. And now that my moods fallen south all I can look forward to is the berating little voices in my head. Maybe it’s wrong to want to hear degrading comments about yourself, but it’s what i’m familiar with, it’s what lulls me to sleep at night, it’s one of life’s bittersweet pleasures.
I don’t hear voices externally, I just recognize them as the little people in my head. Well . . .little person. I always see a woman with straight hair and an angry face and she’s the one shouting insults at me all the time. She doesn’t sound like me, or look like me but she comes around when I’m depressed to make sure I stay depressed. My own thoughts are drowned by the volume of hers and it only gets worse at night when I’m tired. To her, I’m a fake, a piece of shit, a fucking this, a fucking that, a failure, a bunch of things I already knew about. She’s only echoing my thoughts, I know, but these are the moments I feel myself cowering in the back corners of my mind waiting for someone to save me. I’m sick of saving myself because I always end up in the same situation.
To think, all this triggered by a few simple words in a phone conversation, words that weren’t even offensive.
I try to be positive for other people’s sake but it’s not always feasible.
Healing is a road, not a destination. And I think I’ve sunk into another pot hole from hell.