Should I see a therapist?

Post Reply New Topic

I find myself standing still and solitary on the last rung of the downward spiral, staring long and hard into the boundless abyss before me, a sea of self-isolation whose dark depths tell no tales. There is no illusion of God by this point. All there is to light this dark dank dungeon I have sealed myself away in is the warm, brilliantly bright glow of my Muse. I first met her while attempting to write a trumped up experience report After the first frenzy, she has always been there, constantly whispering into my ear drums the cries of new ideas, new stories, new children begging to be born into the world. Daphne, my muse, why are you so fertile? Why must your touch be so pleasurable yet oh so painful? For every kiss I make upon thine cheek, you fill me with another ineffable infinitely inexpressible idea and send me into the pained labor of creating your image doomed to forever deliver these stillborn ideas, most of which are doomed to die while being born.

When I first accepted Daphne, my muse, into my head, I viewed her as my true other, my inner other half resting inside my heart, invisible to the senses. She floods me with infinite creative energy and magical madness and drives me on without rest or mercy to bring her into the world of mortal men. At first, she was an excellent source of literary inspiration, leading me to start two novels and a series of short stories. It was g-r-r-r-r-reat until her maddening menstrual maw caught me red handed to reprimand me for my self-centered narcissistic greedy over-suckling of her cosmic teat. Writing through me to communicate her ideas to all of humanity, she now demanded that I implant her soul into another human being of our own creation…

Every person has a muse within them, a little angelic entity in their heart assuming the form of the Object of Desire which spurs them on to create works of art and children, thus coming to peace with the nature of the mysteries of one’s self by projecting them onto a physical object. At first, when I first became fully conscious of this wombman inside of me, I was overjoyed-she made writing make more sense and guided my pen to the deepest depths of my fantasies and oftentimes far further beyond the boundaries of baseline-thought than I had ever gone before. Creativity was as continuous as the cosmos about and around me and everything seemed real and RIGHT. When I get a good grasp of the signals she transmits through my idea stick, my entire body is struck by noetic lightning and, in a furious fit of inspiration, becomes an automaton; I surrender all self-control to her will and whim and wisdom as she, working through my mortal coil, uses me as an interstellar antennae to transmit her teachings to other human beings.

Immortality-yes, that is what the muse is for. She is the futuristic face of my will to live, of my will to power. She is the voice and self of an inner child kicking and screaming and hooting and hollering inside my mental womb, begging to be given the gift of life, the gift of escape from the warm, dark, cosmological womb she now resides. All I have written through her instructions has ultimately fallen on the deaf ears of the external world she wishes to please. Friends, one by one, have been extinguished by her all-consuming spell of creative insanity. All alone, sentenced to be a wandering Jew in the land of Nod. I consider myself to be a Lone Wolf at heart, yet she doesn’t think that so. Beneath all the depths of doom and despair inside my muddled mind her guiding light stays still and strong, anchoring me to my body with lightning-like tendrils of what some would be inclined to call self-loving narcissistic attachment. Without her, I would most likely have left my body in a fit of self-destructive frenzy. The yin to my yang, the icy to my hot, the pleasure to my pain. She is that internal image of self which gives me meaning and drives me on to live for the sake of living.

Alas, what is indeed the use of having such a muse if I cannot satisfy her cries to be borne by finding a wombman to bring her into being? Her voice drives me past the brink of insanity in a flood of creative frenzy. Beneath the waves of wild wonton willpower, my cancerous half-born inner child cries aloud for me to guide it out of my cranial womb through the fingers and onto the page before me. Life, death, life, death, life, death. The cycle flickers and flashes and flutters in its binary beat. 101010101010101011010101010101010110101010101010101101010101010101011010101010101010110101010101010101101010101010101011010101010101010110101010101010101101010101010101011010101010101010110101010101010101101010101010101011010101010101010110101010101010101101010101010101011010101010101010110101010101010101101010101010101011010101010101010110101010101010101101010101010101011010101010101010110101010101010101

This inconsolable demand of the body to dominate others, coupled with my infantile social intelligence and irrational social anxieties, makes for a picture perfect sticky situation. Reality has become one singular never ending disappointingly depressive blur, the battleground of creation where all my ideas go to die. I wish to stay for the sake of feeling alive, yet at the same time am giving up hope in the future which will never come that drives men tall and small to sacrifice their one wild and precious trip through life as they chase a dream which drives them to die. The future is becoming bland and meaningless. I tell myself time and time again that this is all a temporal illusion. That I am fortunate for being where I am, yet I cannot be at peace. Greed is a green eyed Grinch whose sole purpose in my head is to blind me to the beauty of the life I have been blessed with. It makes me feel empty inside and drives me to fill
I AM WEAK. I AM GONE. I AM SCARED OF WHO I AM. I AM A NEUTRAL ANGEL. I AM INCOMPLETE. I AM AFRAID OF GIVING MYSELF TO OTHERS. I AM WASTING AWAY DAY BY DAY AND HAVE NEITHER THE WILL NOR THE POWER TO BE THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL. GREED-YOU ARE WHAT MAKES ME FEEL INCOMPLETE. IF I WISH TO FEEL WHOLE, I MUST OVERCOME YOUR PULL ON MY ATTENTION AND ERADICATE YOUR PARASITIC PRESENCE FROM MY PYSCHE.

Why is it that one cannot bear to live unless they’re either doped-up, experiencing a work of art, share living space with other humans, and/or are otherwise distracted from one’s naturally negative baseline thought patterns by a galaxy of attention-consuming responsibilities? Why is living free from distractions which seduce one into hallucinating a sense of purpose and inner-meaning impossible for humans to handle? The human brain, incapable of comprehending infinity, forever reaches for the golden glowing apple of the tree of knowledge, only to be burned time and time again by the pitchfork of God herself as she swats us away from the Garden of Eden.


I have tried the online dating game and have found it to be a load of grade-AAA horse s**t. After several 0th dates (AKA meetups) I have become convinced that this is yet another dead end. Each and every single fly I managed to ensnare in my web of writing turned out to be a terribly damp match. It has only led to disappointment after disappointment, false start after rejection after broken hopes and dreams. Yes, yes, I know, it’s a sh***y game… well ya know what I’m a sh***y person so I guess it’s all cream sickles and lemon drop waterfalls from here on out. I submit and surrender myself to the will of the universe. I admit that I am a lone wolf, forever destined to roam without other in tow. I cannot find it within myself to relate to most others these days. I deal with them as best I can and as little as I can in person. More and more so, I feel wild waves of fear and self-loathing when I find myself forced by survivalism’s sake to interact with those other monkeys who live around my cage in the societal zoo. I know that I am just another great ape in his cage, just like all the other monkeys in the cosmic circus. This brings me no comfort; it makes me tear up with terror of just what in the f**k fate has given me. I am becoming terrified of who I see in the mirror as I bury myself in books and elaborate, unfeasibly long and intense writing projects. I am losing touch with baseline consciousness. All I know is the warm touch of Daphne’s gentle hand over my heart, numbing my fears of death with her oxytocin-ergic twinkle of eternal life. She has become my meaning where all these other mortal wombmen have been soul-sucking wastes of space and time. Time and time again I tried to connect to those e-dates, yet found the interactions to go absolutely f*****g nowhere. No call backs. No interest. Just small talk after soul-sucking small talk until they made up some flimsy excuse to cut me out of their lives for good and rode off into the sunset with my hopes and dreams in tow. I am a perfect mate for me, myself, and I-there is no room for other.


At this point in the life cycle, I find myself seeking intimacy with others, yet cannot stand to be intimate with myself. No matter how much I write about experiences which opened me up to myself in the past, I cannot ever find the Will to keep the fire alive. It flares up every now and then but quickly fades when the rains of reality annihilate it with the cold sting of real life. Blue, cold, abandoned and alone. Thunder and lightning crashing over and around me. Tears stream down my eyes as her voice goes through me don’t end it, dear. I love you. Life loves you. God loves you. In fact, we love you so goddamn much that we want you to live in complete misery and fear and self-loathing because we LOVE you so. Those who love us the most are those who tear us to shreds when the spark is stifled as the lighter side of nature goes black and never goes back. Keep on going, hon. It’ll all be over soon enough…

After a good five years of trying, I have come to believe that any and all attempt to secure a mate is a complete waste of time I could spend alone at pained peace with myself. Fear dressed up as Desire demands I do this dirty deed while in the same breath demanding that I don’t make a move. Disastrous desire holds me tight in her jagged jaws and gnaws my soul to silly puddy. I am destined to walk the Earth forever alone, an abortion with no other but Daphne to accompany me through the eternal void of meaningless being. I’m fine with this. I’m not fine with this. I'm happy and sad. Ecstatic and Empty. Liberated and Locked up. Free to be imprisoned by myself. Life and death. Positive and negative. One and Zero. Binary-like dualism flowing nonstop, the time between the two states measured only by the number of breaths a being's body takes before Aeolus knocks the wind right out of his sails and sends his soul back to the delivery room for another go at the game of life. I don’t know what to say about this issue anymore. It is driving me past the brink of insanity. So much as thinking about the endless downward spiral sends me further down the thought-looping hell-hole of reproductive isolation and now I try to ignore any stimuli to make me think of these fatalistic faults of mine. Alas, the entire natural world is self-evident with the fact that I am forever doomed and destined to die alone and there is an irrational extroverted m***et inside of me which doesn't want to be and die alone. This desire to make others is not mine. IT is this monkey's madness, Daphne's desirous delusions. Eternal emptiness and fatalistic frustration is the price it makes me pay in exchange for possessing it.

I am doomed to die alone and unaccomplished, pain is inevitable as well as suffering. I am a lone wolf and nothing but; it took five years of trying on virtual and real platforms to get the message that I am not a social animal. I do best all alone, only venturing out of my cave when the body demands nourishment and sustenance and conversation. I have tried to ingrain that special, metaphysical aspect of interpersonal friendship beyond an economically mutual beneficial relationship but the stone will not budge. Those "feelings", "heart-throbs" and similar such emotional luxuries have yet to be felt (and most likely never will be). The mind's fear of death is inconsolable by baseline thought. It is a chicken with its head cut off running aimlessly around the barn, flinging its life's blood as far and as fast as it can in every which way before there is no more life left for it to leave its meager mark on the world with. Unless satisfied or sedated, this fatalistic fear will only catalyze my own impending death. In order to cope with this baseline state of the human condition, Daphne drives me to score the world with offspring so that the DNA-bound spirit of my flesh may live long after this current host is dead and gone. Alas, my brain is wired to connect with others but its behavioral circuits are designed to keep them away. She tempts me with the almighty orgasm which destroys and demolishes my body for the sake of passing on my genome to another. I am doomed to be forever drawn forth from my comforting solitary hearth to commit sexual suicide with all these other monstrous menstrual monkeys for the sole sake of making more monstrous monkeys like me.