Wrong

I don't know what's wrong with me. Well, it's more that I can't pick what's wrong with me from this long, long laundry list of options that's going around in my head.

• I have no real sense of self or independent identity
• I'm indecisive
• I'm a weird combination of self-loathing and self-absorbed
• I'm highly anxious and averse to risk or conflict.
• I don't trust easily or communicate well
• I seem to sabotage every good thing in my life
• I have the emotional maturity and awareness of a severely autistic five year old
• Etc
• Etc
• Etc

I think it's three that's the big issue. I live too much in my own head, the trouble is that that's often a pretty hostile environment. Some of the time I'm fully in charge of myself, and I can control the little voices that tell me I'm no good and that everything I do is hopeless and doomed to failure because suffering is the only constant of the universe and that's a good thing because I deserve to suffer to make up for all the people I hurt who I'm supposed to care about.

And other times, like the last week or so, not so much.

I don't know why I'm so fragile, and I don't want to be. It's a shameful thing.

I don't relate well to my own feelings. They're like...a fracture. I can't feel it unless I touch it, but touching it hurts, so I don't touch it. In fact, I'm vaguely upset at the fact that they exist at all, not to mention my own lack of control over them. It's easier to just escape, withdraw, avoid. Pretend nothing bad is happening.

That's not healthy. It's destructive. I wouldn't care that much if it hurt just me, but it hurts the people around me and that's something I don't want.

Only problem is, what do I do? I can't change my entire psychology, can I? But I equally can't listen to the part of me that's always saying that this is what I deserve, that I was meant to be alone and that it's not fair for me to inflict my damage on others.

I don't want to give up, but it's very easy to think of myself as a lost cause. As on a pre-ordained trajectory that ends in well-deserved, lonely ignominy. As lacking the strength to overcome even my inconsequential problems.

This might all just be venting. The blogging equivalent of vomiting out the hangover from a binge of negative emotions. Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow with my eyes clear again and able to see myself accurately, or maybe I'll just be deluding myself into thinking that my problems aren't so bad and getting on with things until the next time I undermine my marriage with nothing more than my own neuroses and some obsessive escapism.

For someone who spends so much time looking into himself, I'm awfully lacking in self awareness. It's like every time I look inside me, there's just a storm, and looking any deeper than the waves on top of it is too painful and difficult to be borne. So it's just wasted time and wasted energy, a distraction. Sartre would say that I was living in bad faith, Kierkegaard that I was living in despair.

My desire for structure wants me to give this a conclusion of some kind. There really isn't one because this issue isn't resolved. It's become an issue by the very fact of its irresolution. Of my irresolution. Of my own formlessness. These thoughts aren't concentrated into anything useful. but at least they're out, I guess.

I just want to be happy in myself, and to make the people I love happy. I don't understand why such a simple thing needs to be so difficult.