I choose suffering and feeling miserable as a 'safe' place where I can have control and nothing can become an ugly surprise. I would like to keep this feeling of security and control but at the same time stop feeling morose and pessimistic... Somehow these things became all one package. Why did I even decide to see a psychologist if deep down I had never believed he would help me? I will not let anyone help me because that would involve destroying the carefully built world of mine. And I don't know any other world, I don't know any other me. I don't know how to behave differently. I don't know how to be happy, what that means, how it feels like, how real it is.
As much as I don't want to be like this I sit here not seeing any other way for me. I'm scared that my children will learn from me to go through life like this. I fear they will waste so much time in their lives, just as I have been doing it for years and years, because of my fucked up attitude that I surely model for them every day...
So why did I start seeing a psychologist? Because my feelings were becoming too difficult to cope with even for me. I can have the luxury of being this suffering, moody person if I have somebody next to me who will pick me up from time to time, who has a much more optimistic, cheerful approach to life, who will inject some joy into my life. Joy that, although coming from outside and not from within me, allowed me to feel normal and safe and maybe even a bit optimistic occasionally. But when that person, tired as hell and hurt by my destructive quest for misery, started to fail, I found it harder and harder to go on. With nobody to lean on like that, with somebody that actually started to add extra weight to my misery, to this carefully balanced amount that I was able to take, I could not continue being a parasite for bits of happiness to keep me nourished. Apparently, I do need these bits and pieces that fall of the table of the ones who know how to be happy. But I have drained him, I have left him so dry and bitter and disillusioned that there may be nothing left. If I don't start to generate my own joy, and share it, there will be no laughter in my world, no smile, no support, no warmth.
I'm so tired and empty. I know these feelings so well. They are familiar, almost comforting. I don't want them but I don't stop them from engulfing me, numbing my pain, keeping me in this imaginary safe-place. Maybe I really don't want them to go away, I guess D. is right. I wouldn't know what to put in their place. But it means that... I will never stop being like this, I will not let myself or anybody else help me out of this fake safe-place.
What would it take to get me out of there? Can I be taken in peace or rather it must be by force? How drastic would the measures need to be so that I finally let my soul, my mind, and my body to unite and feel good, simply happy, simply? Can you please out-control me, out-smart me, put me in a place where I cannot run, where I cannot fight, where I have to strip off everything that weights me down, where there are no weapons, no tricks, no manipulation, no defenses... and rip it out, rip this horrid destructive part of me that can only lead to more and more misery, the thing that will make me the end of my own family, my own life. It just pushes me further and further. Please take it away, please take it away, please take it away....
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