Weary.

I think, I’ve become weary again. Since my becoming disabled in 2008 on account of unprecedented levels of anxiety that ultimately had me dysfunctional, I had meant to really dig deep into this and find out about my condition, go to the root of it and then work my way out from there. Because telling from where I had arrived for myself in 2008, I had to conclude that whatever coping strategies I thought I had built and applied until then, apparently hadn’t gotten me “all there” – or else, my life would have been more successful, less stressful and a lot more enjoyable. But it – life – had spit me out, time and again. Lovers left me, employers got rid of me, jobs and projects either fell apart or they didn’t want me in the first place. When someone has a distinct problem with you that feels solvable and if you have something they feel they need, they might try to work something out. But if someone can’t stand the “smell” of you – figuratively and literally speaking -, they will try to stay away from you or drive you away, depending on the balance of power in the given situation. Apparently, some people in my past must have felt this way about me or else, I wouldn’t have seen myself “on the road” so often. And seeing as I had never risen to positions of being superior to those who decided over my staying on or not, I found myself getting the shorter end of that stick, often. Way too often. Practically every time. I can’t arrive at any other conclusion than presuming, this had something to do with my behaviors and those behaviours being the result of my attempts to cope with my defects and damages. Because I now know without a doubt: I am (badly) damaged fruit. And since that outcome in 2008, I’m afraid I’m damaged worse than I had been willing to acknowledge until then.

So in my usual way of being realistic and pragmatic about life, I had told myself not to remain in denial about anything about myself and my condition any longer. In other words: I guess, I had meant to go for complete recovery from those damages. It wasn’t until reading Alice Miller’s “Drama of the Gifted Child” that I had to realize that I was very unlikely to ever fully recover, at least according to her findings. This was a major blow to my resolve of going about getting as much healing accomplished as possible. I remember how devastated I felt upon completing the reading of her book. I felt like “Shit! I’m doomed. Am I gonna kill myself right away?”

I’m back in that place. Not immediately planning on ending my life, but feeling trapped in a bad place. Filing for partial and soon afterwards complete disability in 2007 brought about a series of very discriminating and disempowering experiences, not to mention a legal battle that went on for more than two years and only slowed down a little in 2011, when my case was moved from unemployment to welfare. I had meant to get some stability and peace on the outside, so I would have a better chance of working on the insides. While I have established such stability at a very scarce standard of living, the perceived finality of the situation has brought about more anxiety and feelings of being worthless and given up on. At least the system doesn’t support a gradual coming around from that, I had to find. I have checked and researched and made phone calls and talked to lawyers and talked to counsellors and talked to similarly affected people and … but from whatever angle I look upon my situation, it appears as if that’s that! Game over, unless I recover to the extent of working full time again, which … I simply don’t think of as being a realistic option. So that’s not good.

But I had talked myself into feeling that I can do this. I can get used to this scarce standard of living – which might still be considered ample and very comfortable when compared to other parts of the world, agreed – and make the most of it. Try to enjoy myself as much as I can. Get out and about when I can. And I have been doing that for the past six years. Kept to a certain routine, tried to remain at least semi-active and somehow “productive” doing a lot of research into my condition and applying as much self-healing as possible as well as doing some blogging and connecting with others. Not to forget the social media, of course. I don’t think, anyone can blame me for having given up and wallowing in self-pity (o.k., maybe a few times, when I felt overwhelmed with my destiny and condition and its outcomes and the situation coming from it – which, I repeat, from all technical aspects is irreversible). It’s just that… I’ve always kept myself from feeling down by doing, what I thought to be the best possible remedy: Set myself a goal, assess the requirements and tools and – go for it! But this program isn’t available any longer – not by any known standard. I can even do without – or at least temporarily forget about – this bleek “outlook”.

However, I’m terrified of finding myself rejected again. It has happened too many times. And the list of possible reasons for this happening again – or at the very least find myself getting singled out – has just gotten extended: My situation and lack of money in order to be spontaneous being one, the sometimes recurring bouts of depression being another (I never let them show, though…, not that I’d be aware of), the list of food intolerances, which make it hard to order “compatible” food anywhere else and thus becoming a nuisance for everyone – waiters and the people I hang out with. Technically, I feel even too complicated for myself. Which is why I titled this one “weary”. I’ve become weary of myself, of the battle, the setbacks and many frustrations I have already put up with, the open hostility I have experienced at times, the many disappointments of trying to find adequate therapists, therapies or medication… I don’t remember having gotten a real break, ever. In many ways, living as I had been living in my early twens is as good as it gets for me. Which – would be fine, if only I knew, I could still do it.

I guess, this is major anxiety talking along with a share of battle fatigue. I keep talking myself into believing, I can still land somewhere with the music. Not in a big way. Just for company and taking my mind off of things. But I have tried as best as I could. Doesn’t seem to work for all of the above listed reasons.

Anxiety. And… growing despair. This isn’t good.

P.S. And the unsettling thought begins to take root that I might be beyond repair in terms of heart, morality, believing in the common good. All those experiences have taken a toll. I could come out a zombie one way or the other. Maybe some things inside of me really got extinguished along the way. I know for a fact that any sense of romance is gone. And likely for good.

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