The Long Days of My Life

The days of my life have become very long and extended. I now fully understand when at funerals they say “he/she lived a very long, full, and happy life.” However, with depression, sickness, and bipolarism filling many of those days I doubt the “happy” part.

As I sit here and write this post, I am 32 years old. I feel 962 years old. I feel the very weight of the world, and barely hear the clocks hands tick by. Seconds seem like minutes, minutes seem like hours, hours feel like days, days; weeks; weeks; months; months; years. I look back at my past and think of those days as just yesterday, but realize that the times I so fondly look back to were over 20 years ago. Many days I sleep just because I can not handle the slow progression of time. Other days it seems as if time has somewhere to go as it passes quickly.

Really the only measurement of time that I seem to have is when to change the cat box, and when to put the trash out. Above and beyond that… I look at myself in the mirror and see the same person staring back, yet when in pictures of recent, I don’t see myself. I see a large shell with unrecognized features peering from the paper. I hear my voice and I know it to be mine, though when recorded I hear something totally different. Am I really fractured? Do I live as two different people? The one the world sees, and the one that I am with all the time? Is this why some people act differently around me then when Im in person with them? I know I wear several masks to hide who I am and what pain is just a needles prick away from being exposed. But which of these masks are actually me?

I fill my days with attempts to find happiness, and be friendly, and try to take up hobbies to pass the time. But mostly I sit in quite solitude and listen to the passing traffic. The constant reminder that there is a life outside of my pressed wood door. A life filled with people who don’t know or could care less that I dwell inside. Each consumed with their own day to day, with places to go and people to see. And I know that the people who tell me that they are my friends travel that road more than I could count, yet no one ever stops, no one ever calls. I am a friend to many, yet a shadow to all, typically only remembered when something is needed or wanted.

I have actually turned away from some people who I used to consider my friends/family because of their constant user ways, and always lying to me, or using me. I don’t mind helping people, I really don’t. But when you become a chain that holds me down in my already long life, I have to let you go. Its one thing to be asked to do something for someone, its another to constantly be expected to, or to be lied to when you ask for help in return.

Constantly it seems like my life is full of ultimatums and a razor thin balancing act of trying not to hurt peoples feelings and a do as I say not as I do situations. Many times I find that what is good for the goose is not for the gander. The people in my life wield guilt like a weapon. Using their martyred feelings to strike to your core, hoping that they will persuade you to their way of thinking or manipulating you into doing what they want you to do. When you stand up for yourself and say “NO this isnt what I want” then their delicate porcelain natures fracture and break, and somehow you are not the villainous asshole that is unkind, uncaring, and then the drudge of the past is stirred up when they recite in practiced breath everything that they have ever done for you, as if these accounts are quiz able and they have to pass with an A+.
Yet when the same is done to them, and your recount all that has been done for them, again you are the villain and the jerk, because you are suppose to do things for others as it is a social qualm.

So you sit and stew in your thoughts, and depression and sadness tighten its grip on you a little more. You dare not let tears slip down your face because they look at you like “what do you have to be sad about” not knowing that many times they are the cause for such sadness and deepening depression.
Many who read this will think it is about them, because their pride and vanity will make it so. Others will simply dismiss it and think that it is a ploy for attention, both are right and both are wrong. Chances are YOU are the one who has caused these feelings I have. But my stitched and blistered tongue keeps me from identifying you as a culprit. If you feel that you may be one of the people that I am talking about, all that I ask is that you consider what you do, when you do it, and how you do it.

So it is with unresolve that I hereby post this. It was a bit of poison that was festering and needed to be expunged.