Don’t feed the legbeard

Been in a bad place the last few days. Profound feelings of worthlessness, you name it. Can’t remember the last time I did routine, basic grooming. I mean, teeth have been brushed, but showering? Not doable. Nope. I have no clue how I smell but I assume it is not pleasant. All the better to keep people away from me.

Our roommate has a sort-of girlfriend that comes down a few times a month from a city about two hours drive away from us. She’s slim and pretty with nice hair. She often stays the night when she’s here, and I’ve made pains to stay out of sight from her. I don’t need someone else to see how pathetic I am. My husband barged into my office last night, like he does, and left the door open. She walked by and had a good look at me in my legbeard splendor. My office is pretty depression-tastic right now, with cans and wrappers everywhere. I felt an indescribable anger and humiliation.

I am going to have to make a sustained effort to keep my office shut and locked while she is there. Hell, I should do that every day. I don’t know much about her but I assume she is like most pretty girls, cruel and happy to mock someone who is visibly “lesser” than her. Or, maybe she’ll get it in her head it’ll be fun to poke around in the weirdo’s stuff. Maybe not. All the same, a locked door will keep my mind at ease.

It’s hard to endure. It’s hard to keep going when you make an effort to speak and smile to others and have them treat you with disdain. I try to value myself but I am breaking under the overwhelming wave of other people immediately judging me as lesser. I am hypersensitive to social cues – my husband has told me he notices this in me. Probably from years of living with a woman whose mood could turn from nice to rageful spite bitchqueen with little to no warning. I am very, very good at noticing people’s small reactions – the way they don’t look you in the eyes, or pointedly look away, while they are still talking to you. Some people even act like you’re a joke to your face, speaking with incredulity that you’re even there talking to them. The shortness of their words, their posture, all screaming,”Why is this uggo speaking to me? Why can’t I speak to someone who’s not an uggo? My eyes hurt.”

I read an interesting web serial called Pact. There was an idea that I felt was profound – that the world in the story has a means to break down the human spirit into smaller and small pieces, a place called the Abyss. I think the Abyss is all around me, in the form of social pressure. It’s amazing to me, that I know I could be loved and accepted if I only bought the powder and creams that are advertised on TV and in magazines. If I lived for my appearance, people would be nice to me. My stepmother’s abuse would be validated, and I’d want to end. It’s a lose-lose situation for me – stay the way I am and want to end, or do everything I’m supposed to and want to end.

Ending is an option on the table. Not the only option, not by far, but I know it will be on the table far longer than the other options. The other options will vanish as I degrade – therapy won’t be attainable once I lose my job. I have yet to have a therapist actually invested in helping me. They just nod their heads while they glance surreptitiously at the clock. Ending is always there for me, though. My only friend. But not for many years from now, I have already firmly decided. I must stay here in the Abyss until my cat goes. She is my one real comfort in this life – I have never had an animal that loved and trusted me the way she does. I’m aware that cherishing an animal to this degree makes me even more sad and pathetic to others. So be it. I’m used to having my few comforts denigrated by others.

Dreams don’t die. They just fade away more and more as each day passes, as you become more aware of your own personal limitations. I need to discard the things in my life that I used to shore up some sort of identity for so long. The art stuff needs to go. The books I don’t read anymore need to go. The stuff from various short lived attempts at trying to be interesting needs to go. I’m not an artist. I’m not a writer. I’m not a musician. I’m not a programmer. I don’t have an identity other than suffering. My office should be as empty as my head. Maybe I can work on discarding stuff tonight. It feels good to throw myself away.


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