We're on our own...

To quote Marcel Proust:

"I put down the cup and examine my own mind. It alone can discover the truth. But how? What an abyss of uncertainty, whenever the mind feels overtaken by itself; when it, the seeker, is at the same time the dark region through which is must go seeking and where all its equipment will avail it nothing. Seek? More than that: create. It is face to face with something which does not yet exist, to which it alone can give reality and substance, which it alone can bring into the light of day."

I'm struggling.
I've officially given up venting.
Again.
At least to other humans.
[This is not for you.]
Pen or keyboard is fine with me.
That's all though.
They don't understand.
It took me so many years to come to terms with my emotions, with this tempest that lies within my psyche.
It took me years to be able to talk to anyone about heavy matters concerning myself.
I could talk endlessly about philosophy, as long as it wasn't mine.
I could debate theoretical physics, as long as the theories were not mine.
I made it a point not to divulge anything about me that would give a hint as to what I was going through emotionally.
I repressed everything.
At 19, I have a bleeding ulcer.
It took me years of therapy, more than 5 therapists, before I was able to talk.
I found friends who said that they would be there for me whenever I needed to talk or vent or cry or vandalize something-- they would be there to help me through all of it.
To listen to me talk or vent.
To dry my tears when I cried.
To vandalize something with me... though I never actually felt compelled to do anything that was considered as such.
It took me years.
Pills, breakdowns, therapy, a god-damned ulcer.
I finally reached the point where I could unabashedly talk [to those very few that I trusted] about my emotions.
And then, when I found the two men I called my guardian angels, they told me that I need to suck it up, that they didn't want to hear me vent anymore, that it wasn't reciprocated, that I was on the verge every other day and they were sick of it.
What happened to "It doesn't matter if you are always a wreck, we are not going anywhere! We will always be here. We will be here in the longest months!"...?
And what happened to "It doesn't fuckin' matter if you have a meltdown every single night. We'll be here to help you through it. We're not going anywhere."...?
In one single conversation, my foundation was rocked so completely that I've fallen back down and I am standing at the base of the mountain.
Again.
I know I need a lot of support right now, but this is a transitional period in my life, and I'm terrified of going through it alone.
They swore to me that I wouldn't have to.
Here I am again, and I have no energy left to make it back to the top.

Elliott Smith said it perfectly.


"Still I send all the time
my request for relief
down this dead power line,
though I'm beyond belief
in the help I require
just to exist at all;
took a long time to stand
took an hour to fall..."

After years of battle, I was at the point where I could talk.
I could vent-- something entirely new.
I could cry.
And now, in one single conversation, the little bit of trust that I had left to give has been completely shattered.
I can no longer vent to other people.
I can no longer show my emotions as openly as I had finally learned to.
I might die from this fucking ulcer, or a heart attack from stress like my father, but I will never again divulge to another human the state of my emotions.
As far as anyone else shall hear or see or think, I am fine.
I'll keep it at a steady low, just like I used to.
Set your expectations low, and never be disappointed.
Or, ever better-- don't set expectations at all.
Fine.
From now on, I'm fine.
That's all they need to know.
Even if it's not true.
I'm scared as hell.
I've never felt so alone.
But the only thing I can do now is
[anything that it takes to survive]
...alone.