Fuck.

Oh man. How poignant the human condition. I sit here staring at the screen, wondering what the fuck it is that I should write. My stopwatch is running, I've got some nicotine in my system, regardless, I just can't get myself to focus.

There is an underlying pressure in my chest. A sort of crippling anxiety. I've dug deep, so I know, that it stems from the deeply embedded notion, that I need to earn the right to rest, and the love and attention of others, via hard work. If I, for whatever reason, fail to hit the mark, not only do I not get to rest, but I also drain myself through isolation and blame.

It doesn't take long until I reach a point of exhaustion, and, to finally shift my focus from "what a failure I am," I look for distractions. Weed, games, porn, you name it.

I've got pain locked up inside. The recent visit of my family, here in Finland, hit me like a truck, at full speed. I've lived in the notion, that somehow, just somehow, I could be able to amass some wealth and "help" them live a good life. I wanted to see them smile.

However, meeting them now, and seeing their habits, their manners, hearing their opinions and complaints, all I see and hear is "I will never change." They proclaim that somewhat proudly too, as in, "I am what I am, deal with it," like bro. The balls on you must be titanium. Saying that like you're some kind of finished product.

Anyways, I've realized, that this hope that I carried, was nothing but a mission that was doomed to fail. I can't save people. I can't help them. The only people who can help them are they themselves. Furthermore, my need to help them, is somewhat selfish, innit? "Let me change you, so that I can be happy."

My relationship with them has never existed. I have never been of interest to them. Even today, when I tell them, "I am writing a novel," I am met with a mere nod or change of subject.  

The young boys in my chest are screaming and kicking when they notice. To them, and apparently, to me too, it is a confirmation that, after all, I am not lovable. I am not worth the attention.

This fear, this tension, this cramp I carry around with me all the time. Around friends, at work, at the gym. I constantly wonder whether I am performing well enough for someone to notice and go "hey, good job, you're doing well."

A warm thank you to all the people that have supported me thus far, but...I will never be able to receive praise, and even if I did, it will not fill the hole in my chest. The praise has to come from me. But for that, I have to first surrender to the state my "family" is in, and accept, that I have to live for myself foremost. And secondly, let go of the pain that their coldness and disinterest have conjured.

I have to revisit the dark places in my mind that I don't want to go to.

At the same time, I have to get a firm grip on my life. Create a rigid schedule and have expectations of myself, but not for the sake of "earning" my right to rest or be loved, but simply because it keeps me rooted in my day to day.

I've had my fair number of -play video games and smoke- days. I know what that feels like. It feels like shit. I've also had a fair amount of the "yay, I did so well today," days and I know, that that feeds me and helps me stay grounded.

Not even writing this post, helps me rid myself of the pain curled up in my chest. The only way is to cry it out. I don't want to. Fuck this whole therapy shit.