Impotent Rage in 2018

The ol’ temptation has been beckoning again, and I’ll admit that when I think things over in a way that feels rational, suicide seems like the most logical option. As I discussed with Anna, I have two reasons for not doing it, and neither of them have anything to do with me. My life exists out of a state of fear and guilt. Fear of what may happen. Guilt over what would. I don’t know how long a person can stay alive from a sense of fear and guilt. Perhaps a long time. I think that we’ll be able to get some kind of answer from me, at any rate.
Job instability forebodes financial instability. And this generally correlates with mental inability. And then that makes the aforementioned issues worse. Hurrah. I’m having issues with my main source of income, and I realize that to strike out, more or less, on my own is probably beyond my current mental powers and physical endurance. I suppose that finding a single job in Japan would give me the financial/legal basis of stability required to push things, but it’s tricky. It’s very tricky. We’ll have to wait and see what happens.
I can feel my muscles tighten. Frequently. I’m a ball of immobile stress.

There are times I fill with rage, as with this morning. A whining mother complained that the lyrics to “Found a Peanut”, a song I sang as a preschooler in Sunday school, was inappropriate, and the song has been banned. Despite all of the children loving it. I was furious. I am furious. But knowing that nothing could be done, I crushed the rage into something that I could swallow, and let it rot in my belly. I remember, years ago, one of the two visits where I was allowed to see a therapist, he taught me how to punch his hands. Feeling the weakness, the horrible weakness, in my bloated and weak body was infuriating. I can feel weakness in all of me, much as I feel that some can take joy in the conscious sensation of their own strength. It’s agonizing. Truly agonizing. But I don’t know what to do.

I wanted to punch something, but I couldn’t. I wanted to kick something. But I couldn’t. I knew that even beginning the actions would be useless, and that I was physically incapable of finishing them. I wanted to do something, anything, and there was nothing. Although this is an overreaction to a minor stimulus, this is something along the lines of refusing Doritos to my dearest friend. This is, for some inexplicable reason, too far, too much, and utterly unacceptable.

I gazed longingly out of the windows all day. Honestly wanting to jump face first out of them. Without exaggeration. I wanted it.
It’s seldom that I actually know what I want, and it’s seldom that I’m confident in my desires or my feelings or anything of the sort. I would like to kill myself. That specifically. It’s no longer just a desire to die. The notion of doing it to myself appears appropriate, possibly from this sense if impotent powerlessness. It would be a thing that I did, in my own way, on my own terms, showing off my own ability. It sounds pleasant, in some strange way.

I also understand how someone, my mother, can bury their psychological issues in the love of a child, and I understand how such things can quickly become pathological. Being swarmed by a dozen adoring faces all declaring that they love me (two girls proposed to me over lunch) is a wonderful feeling. But even then, the emptiness never really went away. It’s still here. When I consider the effort that it would take to fix even the smallest of the issues in my life, or the things that it would take to get me functional . . . it just doesn’t seem like it’s terribly possible. And I’d rather leave the world with whatever dignity I can manage than to continually endure my current existence.

Fear and guilt.

That is, quite literally, all I have to live for.