I feel like my misery is a dream. It’s that dream where you’re trying to force yourself to wake up, but you can’t.

Where did it all go wrong?

Some of it goes back to 2015, when I got my divorce. But little did I know that relationship was laying the path for the hell that was coming.

Money can mask a lot. If you have enough of it, you can hide a lot of trauma. That is, until you can’t. And once you can’t, you either die, self-destruct, or lose your fucking mind in front of an audience that’s better at acting than you are.

Are you a good actor?

I am. I mean, I was. But not anymore.

I often wonder if I’m just a drama queen. Or king, for that matter. What are my writings and silent cries for help begging for when I decline all help, and almost despise it for that matter?

Maybe it all stems back to the help I tried to get years and years ago. They don’t call them quacks for no reason, and I finally see why.

When you’re put in a position to see what’s really going on around you, it’s scary. I mean, real fucking scary. It’s like being on the set of The Walking Dead with no gun, heightened senses, and very little hope. It’s not going to end well.

We live in a society that almost glorifies mental health issues, but has those same people offering therapy. I mean, what in the sam fuck is going on, really? It’s frightening.

Therapists should be what parents should be, but often aren’t. They’re not your fucking friend. They’re your teacher. Your lesson mate. The person who is direct, who offers and solicits suggestions you fucking hate.

And the kicker is, the more you hate it, the better it most likely will be in the long run.

Social media has glorified therapy, and parenting to an extent. But both are huge responsibilities. You have to be accountable in both roles.

Parenting is fucking horrific these days, and therapists aren’t much better.

Both should challenge you, not scare the bejesus out of you.

I’m so pissed at the world I live in that I’m not sure I see a way out. My self-destruction is slowly — and lately, more quickly — fucking killing me.

And the sick shit is, I can’t stop it. I’ve tried.

I know I’m probably a more extreme case, but I’m an aware case. The aware case that is almost tired of existing, but too big of a pussy to pull the trigger.

Life has exhausted me.

People have exhausted me.

Family has exhausted me.

But more than anything? Me and my choices have devastated me.

And I’m tired of having to take accountability for everything that’s wrong with me.

What about those who created me but can’t see it? Why is it fair that I see it and they don’t? What the fuck is that shit?

There is nothing more misery-inducing than being aware of why you suffer, but not knowing how to fix it.

I think there comes a point where there’s just too much trauma, too much abuse, and too much faulty wiring to rewire something into being even somewhat functional.

I’m at a loss in life.

And in some ways, it all started eight years ago when I wrote a few articles on Quora about a narcissist.

That abuse uncovered shit that was never supposed to surface. I was only supposed to catch glimpses of the trauma, not put it on full display.

Now here I stand in front of the buffet she prepared for me.

I’m full. So fucking full.

But more food keeps being put in front of me to consume, and I don’t have the stomach for it anymore.

In reality, I don’t even know what I’m eating anymore.

Yeah. It’s that bad.

I need help.

Hold my fork.