Sometimes I wonder if I’m ever gonna make it home again…

I’ve been wrestling a lot lately with this feeling of being antsy, unsettled, some sort of dysphoric chaos going on inside my body and my brain. I feel the urge to run, to get out of all this, to shed the million pounds of life and possessions that are drowning me. Maybe it’s a midlife crisis. I don’t know how to explain it. I think a 35 year old year old journey for reward and instant satisfaction has blunted my brain to feel perpetually unsatisfied.

Everything around us is instant. I can order a ride, food, shop for anything I desire with a click of a button. Information is available on anything at any moment I want it. I don’t have to work for anything. Nothing is out of my reach. It’s not enough to watch TV. I stare at two screens simultaneously. I Google the actors on the screen, I text my friends, I update Facebook while binge watching the latest trash Netflix has to offer. I am connected to everyone and everything 24/7. Things that used to be luxuries are every day occurrences. And I keep reaching, reaching, reaching for something else to bring me pleasure, to bring me pain, to bring me anything but this fierce numbness draining my soul. I could have anything in the world to fill my desires with free two day shipping. And having access to anything makes me incredibly sad and lonely and empty. Knowing nothing in the world can fill me up. I am perpetually hungry for more.

What’s the solution to infinite dissatisfaction? I know I must sound incredibly selfish and self centered. But I need to drag myself out if this before I can think about anyone else. A new house? A new job? Traveling? More things? Nature? Exercise? Volunteering? I’ve tried most of them and nothing seems to help.

I finally became an adult this year. I think you’re grown up when you forget how to dream and you settle into the machine you once tried so hard to fight. You become callous and indifferent as reality sinks in that there is nothing you can do to change anything, not even yourself. I used to think I was destined to do great things. I think everyone thinks that at some point. Realizing that life is likely half over for me and I have accomplished nothing is like a harsh slap in the face. Only a slap in the face would be better, at least that might hurt.

I even tried to make a list of anything I could get excited about. Dreams, no matter how wildly out of reach they are, anything I’d like to accomplish, but I couldn’t think of anything. I can’t even muster the ability to hope, to dream, to imagine something greater.  This metamorphosis from child to adult, like a butterfly but backwards. I once was a beautiful butterfly spreading my wings and flying, and now I am wrapping myself tightly in my chrysalis to emerge as a slimy worm.

On a side note, the whole concept of mental illness is ridiculous. I’m also in the middle of being medicated back into submission. Medicating the psychosis out of my head. Altering my brain chemistry to be more like everyone else’s. I tell you being psychotic is much more pleasant than being sedated. This horrible dull feeling is magnified by 1000.  The drugs steal the little joy and humanity I had left.

I guess I’ll sit back and watch. Love me. Entertain me. Bring me instant pleasure. Watch everyone else feel and reach out for the only thing I can’t have.

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