Sad babbling in The Road Ahead

There should be a word for the deceptively quiet and small feeling you get in the back of your mind when you resign yourself to buying that one way ticket to the long farewell.

I don’t belong anywhere. I’m not fit for the world I find myself in. All I want to do is love and be loved, and I feel like I’ve failed at that. I’ve never been enough.

All the things I loved and that clamorred for my attention have fallen to the wayside. The bastions of escapism and connection were lost and things have gone quiet. Quietly floundering for air with all energy to survival and making it through the day.

I have gaming streams on YouTube and Twitch playing nearly 24 hours a day, just to have some sort of human connection. I don’t know how to ask for help but I’m worried it’s getting out of my control. My quiet desperation is bleeding into all aspects of my life and you know what feeling I can’t shake?

Guilt. I feel so fucking guilty for being such a time and money sink to those around me. All the emotional and other forms of investment, and the selfish prick I am can’t do anything but fantasize about ending my life, ultimately betraying those who cared about me in the first place.

I know I’m not technically alone. But I don’t know who I can talk to when it gets like this. It’s really, really hard to talk about depression and especially difficult to talk about feeling suicidal with people who don’t understand it. It’s something I’ve struggled with every day for as long as I can remember.

I’m casually researching the most painless methods of self dispatch, cautiously optimistic it’ll merely end up another nugget of information I hope I’ll never need.

I need to cry from the bottoms of my feet
I need to be held as the littlest of spoons
I need to make my own version of peace
I need goals and something to work for
I need friends and to feel connected

What I expect though…is nothing. I expect to hold my feelings under the surface until the next time I’m on the freeway, ugly crying at 70 mph. I expect to take comfort in being the big spoon for my teddy bear, my skin and mind crying out for human touch. I expect to continue to be swallowed up by my waves of depression, sunk into the maelstrom. I expect to continue to slam my head against the wall or end up trading my body for a place to live. I expect that feeling of being cast off and unwanted to flourish and echo off the empty corridors of my heart.

I’m not hopeful. Except I suppose, for the tiny sliver that has kept me going this far, but I’m beginning to feel like I’ve overstayed my welcome.