Mixed messages, ground control, and pulled punches.

Hello. This is an attempt at writing as honestly as I can. I’m not in a good place, as any witnesses to my recent online outbursts would attest. As I type, I’m sitting in the Ashling hotel bar, starting my third pint, only out of court (which I have to go back to for a FOURTH time in a few weeks. Exhausting). I’m down to my last tenner, with nowhere to go or stay, and things look bleak. My head is ‘fucked’, as we are wont to say. WELL fucked. I’m examining my life yet again, and yes, the drink helps. I’m trying to figure out how things went wrong, in a probably vain attempt to right them. I’m pretty sure I started out as a good guy, and may have even started out happy. But so many things got to me over the years, from a very young age. Religion, parental aggravation being foisted on me, the usual shit.

Right now, I write as a homeless person, the only walls around me are the ones my back is up against. I’ve burned all bridges in life, and I’m trying to figure out why. I think my main problem is I was always too trusting of others. I assumed others’ intentions to be healthy, be it family, or my love life, or in professional pursuits, but that is not the case. Everyone has their own shit, but it’s not their fault. It’s the shit’s fault, I suppose. But I soaked it all in, and believed everything, and this is what has me in my current mental state.

Right now, i’m struggling to even write this (or ‘right’ this, as it were) But I’m a writer first, it was the desire to write that originally copped me on to sobriety. I am lost. I’ve developed addictions. They override my ability to think sanely. I don’t even think I am an adult yet. My coping skills are still those of 10 year old Rob, with the accompanying desire for fantasy. There’s still that feint glimmer of hope that my mutant powers will kick in any moment now. I’m considering a life of crime to get by, and assuming I can lose any restful sleep such a life doesn’t allow for. Like I NEED to be the prick. I understand how pricks must feel. I also understand how suicidal people must feel. This is too much information for a guy who only ever wanted to create. I’ve always felt like an outsider. Apparently, this is a commonplace feeling amongst alcoholics, but even in periods of recovery with support groups, I STILL felt like the outsider. It’s why I was drawn to Doctor Who at 16. The man who LOOKS like everyone else, but is SO different, SO much more. And tortured.

I find it hard to accept I’m like everyone else. This lack of acceptance of reality is what made me take up standup comedy at 33. Desperation, and making it work. I was good at it. But it is a state of madness. Maybe I just need a new madness. I understood what Robin Williams meant, and boy, did it fuck me up when he took his own life.

I used to laugh myself asleep at night listening to ‘Billy and Albert’ as a teen. My parents would rush into the room assuming I was crying, and in distress. Which is a fair enough mistake to make, but the point is I started to tune into their assumptions, and thought I MUST be in distress. Second-guessing myself, to this very day. I am mentally ill, I’m under no assumptions about this, but others have diagnosed me wrongly, and I find my mind clashes with wanting to believe them, but knowing ‘better’. I’ve always strived for honesty, but I find most people don’t have that. They need their bubbles, and that’s fair enough. But leave MY fucking bubble alone, if you don’t want YOURS burst. Ya get me?

I live in a constant state of breakup with ANYone I’ve ever been involved with. I still miss all of them. I still dream of old jobs, and old apartments. I have difficulty moving on from anything, because I’m still emotionally invested with everything. Because that feels like that’s how life SHOULD be. I know this is wrong (or THINK I know), but I can’t change my very instincts. I react badly to those I feel are the ‘bastards’. I’m prone to paranoia but not convinced that it’s misplaced. I sometimes even feel like I am the only thing that exists, and everything and everyone else is a figment of my imagination. Very Jacob’s Ladder, I know. But you’re experiencing reading this, right? RIGHT?

I need help. I just don’t think it exists.

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About robbonham

Doctor Who fan
This entry was posted in Alcoholism, Mental health. Bookmark the permalink.

3 Responses to Mixed messages, ground control, and pulled punches.

  1. dhdesignie says:

    Yes, I am. I experienced reading that.

  2. chiarraigrrl says:

    In fairness, I don’t think you’ve burned ALL your bridges, Robster. 😊

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