Slip Central

I do strive to write something for myself everyday. I've made a commitment to myself that this journal should be it. It seems managable, doable, and worthwhile. Especially since I recently noticed what a massive difference writing here amde in my state of mind. I've failed more times than I can count in my life. In the past year alone, I have decided to do something and failed to stick to it more than ever before in my life. It's left me in a bad shape physically, easily my worst ever, thus far. To think that it can get worse from here is a terrifying notion indeed.

While I put in my entry of the bare minimum I could muster, I hold myself back. I feel a bit traumatized by the countless derailments I have faced on my journey, and even though I have little awareness of why and even my mind has failed to find any decent solution to one of the major potential causes, I can't help but continue this useless struggle. Maybe if I slow down it'll work. Maybe I need to go hard. Perhaps I am overthinking it too much, lets try being empty. Perhaps I need to correct as I go.

All of it might be true for the most part, but it really feels like whack-a-mole. Identify and fix one problem, another one takes its place. Even after so much effort, I am worse off than I was at the beginning. I can't help but remember this notion I was wrestling with the day after my latest entry here. I was thinking how greed, gluttony, lust, and sloth always led to my demise. All those hours of ceaseless binging and the like. But when I turn to the flipside, it is the greed of stravation, the lust for power, the gluttony for suffering, and something about sloth I guess, that lead me to overcorrect in the opposite direction.

What is it that makes an action good or bad? The simple answer is, if it is good for you and the world at large, it is good, otherwise, it's immoral. Unfortunately, it becomes extremely confusing at times, especially considering that my self is already split into parts that each want something separate. Above all else, I desire novelty. I despise reliving old experiences and going in circles. That's why I hate this chapter of my life. No matter how hard I try to go toward a positive direction, I end up going in circles, spiraling toward certain doom. 

Feels utterly foolish and obviously hopeless at this point to think about it anymore. I wish not to repeat myself, in writing or in speech. Yet I find myself feeling the same bitter tinge of regret as I have the past months. The sobering up after a debacle, scandalous, and hedonistic spree of no regard. The pains of a hangover and a body that begs for mercy, devestated by the horrors it has experienced. Even if I have not smoked or drank anything for more than a month, the cycle repeats itself. This time with food, porn, video games, and television. 

I do not feel helpless, or angry, sad, or frustrated, just deeply and extremely disappointed. The abyssmal dread of a knowing sense of disappointment that I never forsaw in all my years. I can't help but feel at least a little angry at my situation, though. There's no room for progress here, it feels like. Everything is stacked up against it. They say that a man should look after his own affairs before critisizing the world. That he needs to get his own house in order before trying to fix external reality. Yet it takes a big man to admit when he's licked. 

I might not be a big man, just a regular guy who's past hating or loving himself. But I do know that I'm in over my head and that at this moment I need some help. Not the kind of shapeless help I had asked of the internet a little over three years ago, but a certain plan with precise demands. I know I've growed in my own way and that all my failures were unavoidable. I know the real part my situation has played in my current state, and just how much of it was of my own making. The latter was no small part, mind you. Easily bigger than the former, in fact.

Yet all that remains now is to keep trying. Even though I feel frustration toward the others who might not understand. Afraid at the shame, redicule, and disgust I will find in the faces of those who knew me. That does weigh heavily on my heart. It also kindles a certain restless anxiety to hurry up for lost time. But the raw wounds of constant and bitter defeat eclipses it all, and all I can truly say to myself is that I am doing my best. I might have moved in to Slip Central, with losers and failures amuck, but what's there to say to myself in the dark, except that I'm just passing by. 

Maybe tomorrow I can dream up a whole new life. With visions of glory, pride, and the whole nine yards. As for today, all I can say, is to enjoy it while it lasts. These damp, cold horrors, and lonely hours. Challenges for which I'm unworthy. I just want to bury my head in the ground, and wake up when it's okay.