Are You Honest With Yourself?

Many believe they are. It helps lessen the misery

The self-help community is full of people telling others what to do that they aren’t doing themselves. They talk the talk but don’t walk the walk. Yea, I’m talking to you. Well, and myself. I’m the master of projection. Aren’t you?

Yea, some are good, but are they? Are they so obsessed with a personality disorder or psychology they have to write and talk about it daily as their new addiction?

Yes, we need the educated to educate the uneducated, but at what point does it defeat its purpose?

Are they making 1000’s of YouTube videos to help others? Or is it their new addiction or distraction? I dunno, I don’t.

The good thing is, I don’t charge to give my opinions. But what I write about is things I fear doing myself. I walk a fine line between delusion and truth. I may speak the truth, but it falls on my deaf ears. I’m seriously deaf, like really fucking deaf.

I love telling people what they need to do and how to do it. Hell, I even like it. Because I am talking to myself at a whole new subconscious level that I didn’t know was possible. But I created it, and it’s impressive.

I’ll create narratives in my mind that lessens my pain. It’s nothing more than a temporary bandaid that I need to rip off and let heal. I need that mother fucker to bleed out and be done. But I can’t. I have a whole medicine cabinet full of bandaids. And if I run out, I get more. Where I keep them is behind a mirror that I refuse to look into.

Maybe I’m judgemental, but I don’t believe so, OK, perhaps a little. But my judgment comes from experiences.

I’ve been to a minimum of 10 therapists, and each one was crazier than me. I didn’t believe that was possible. But some would help me justify my fucked up thinking when in reality, I need someone to call me out on this shit.

My last therapist bailed on me. He was supposed to meet me at a pivotal point in my life. He jumped ship, turned gay, lost his medical license, and got addicted to crack. No shit. How does that happen? It’s not luck; it’s my fate, the fate of painful lessons that I keep throwing myself into.

Rumor has it, the more fucked up the person or situation, I’ll get involved. Bring it on.

I take punch after punch and ignore the TKO, and I get right back up for another round. I live for this shit. I LOVE abuse; I don’t know any different.

I love to bring new actors into my story. They have to pass the initial screening. Be fake, lack purpose, and make sure you give me a good dose of abuse. If you have those three, you are welcome. Hell, you might get a leading role!

Progress, change, and awareness are just words; I’m sick of words, labels, spiritual memes, coincidences, self-help, god, fuck all that. It all comes down to action.

Here I go again, on another rant telling others what they need to do, “take action” while all I do is spew great ideas while wallowing in my misery. I fucking love it here! My suffering is comfortable to me, and I don’t know any other way.

The minute I sniff a slight change, I run back to an ex, pick up the bottle, binge eat, bitch, complain, tell others how to live, or tell others what they should be doing. Whatever it takes to avoid the mirror. And best yet, I write and tell others what I should be doing while disguising it as “self-awareness.” It’s sick shit.

Yea, yea, I am in a sense, but I’m not happy here. I wish I weren’t aware, I wish I was comfortable in my misery, but I’m not. Comfortable and happy are two different adjectives, verbs, or whatever you want to call them.

One keeps you stuck, and the other keeps you chasing an illusion.

What is happiness? I think I know, but I do everything in my power to avoid it. I love the fake happy; that’s what it is. The more fake, the better. It keeps me living in the fucking merry-go-round of miserable comfort. A misery I can’t escape.

Nothing grows where my thoughts terrorize me. I need water. I’ll be back.