I understand the idea of something from nothing. Things don't need to come into being with the fanfare of explosion; or at the very least, the explosion isn't seeded from nothingness. It comes from darkness, pressure, and time. I'm in an infinity loop.
There's something very comfortable and absorbant about being in shock. Something that removes you from the damage and makes you feel like things are okay. Eventually though, your body trusts that you're no longer in danger and permits itself the right to freak the fuck out. It's violent, ugly, and painful.
And that's where I am now. I've been blessedly distracted for the past few weeks, and all of a sudden I was safe enough to feel. I've been crying a lot when I'm alone. Change is nature's caffeine pill and I barely sleep. I don't really know how to talk to anyone about what I'm going through. Any time I bring it up I can't help but feel maudlin and incredibly bored with myself. I'm fifteen again. I don't want anyone's help, I just want to be fine with it.
There's moments in sadness that are silly and trite; I've had Tom Petty's Free Fallin' stuck in my head for days. Then there's moments of pure self destructive frustration. I feel like I'm shedding something, and it's unpleasant and private. Being around my friends is harder than the melt downs I have by myself.
Jokes have been both a crutch and a bridge for me; being able to make fun of things isn't just how I deal with things, but how I come to understand them. It's the only format I have to process things in my life that isn't terrifying or difficult. It's worked so far, and it's helped me get to know and connect with other people. At the end of it all, that's all I want. Seems strange that my only instinct right now is to disconnect as far as possible. Sadness is a retreat. I can't make this funny. I can't make anything funny at the moment.
All I want is to push through this and come up with something great; I want to make people laugh about this, but I can't do that myself. I'm struggling with a lot of self hatred and more than anything I don't know how to admit that to people. I want a moral to the story. I want a silver lining. So far I've turned up empty.
I resent myself for writing this. I wanted to write about the idea of fear as entertainment, something more light and thoughtful and in line with Halloween. I'm a little consumed by this, and I hate myself for that.
I am grateful for the friends I have and the support they offer but I have no idea what to do with it. Something about it doesn't feel safe. As much as the idea of vulnerability between people who care about each other appeals to me, I'm left pretty inexperienced in my own personal follow through. It's not that I don't show people when I feel weak, I never developed those traits. It's that I don't feel better for it; being comforted only seems to add some kind of further anger that I don't have terms for. I hate the way I feel and I hate showing it to people, and if they try to help, I get angrier because they're somehow aiding that feeling I hate.
That's the loop; anger, sadness. Hatred, self pity. The cliche about the stages of loss are applicable but certainly lacking in comfort.
I don't think that this is who I'll be for the rest of my life, not all the time anyway. These insecurities were here before and now they've been pushed up, little blackheads of character that I'd been masking and insisting would go away. Their effect on my personality is amplified by this theatre of grief where I've been practicing my good front. I know I'll be fine. Trying to manage my emotions while maintaining some sense of maturity and not throwing my life into some nihilistic abyss is the tricky part.
I don't know how to go through this. I just am and it fucking sucks.
About A Blog
I'm a Denver Comedian, occasional cartoonist and person of interest to someone, probably. These articles are really too long.