A Letter of Little Depth, to None but Myself, A Scared Little Boy With a Girl’s Name

What presses against my thoughts that let me overcome everything that holds me so low? I am a scholar of emotion and behavior and response, I can identify depressive episodes, in others and within, and I can say in sincerity, I am low. The notion that I can be so low, and yet all my symptoms are internal, causes me pause and disbelief that I can actually get up in the morning, get up and prepare myself for a world that just objectifies me. I, like most, do not deserve anything from a cruel nature, I owe it back, and should pay it forward for whatever preset implications caused me to assemble, and has forced my birth and growth. I can’t admit to any of it being easy, life I mean, but the actions, the emotions, and the responses that lean toward altruism do come easily. Why? If I resign to any psychoanalytic or neurological explanation for sadness and despair, I should be wrought with heavy chains, tied to boulders, cast off the edges of cliffs into the deep and far spreading ocean. Perhaps that rock is still sinking, another frightful notion that it may drag me into the depths soon, or lengthy chains may spare me, that touch the ocean floor long before my line goes taut. My thoughts flutter. What motivates me? It must be an internal mechanism, something I cannot understand, at least cognitively, at this point in my time here. I believe in God, but others, deemed better for society by their deeds, rightfully so, do not. I believe morals are incredibly paramount, and not just in the avoidance of anxiety, but in developing a sense of self worth in such an over-tightened spotlight society. I know who I am, but have yet to find adjectives that coincide with each other enough to make sense to someone else. Anyone else really. I wake up many days, well everyday, but many days I awake and carry out my rituals and daily preparations while simultaneously reminding myself that I hate myself, I hate this world, and yet upon my faith, fear death. My mind wanders away from the light much too often though. What does death hold that I fear? I am blessed with the personal truth of faith, I know what awaits on the other side, but self worth creates uncertainty. Not uncertainty in what follows, but which fork I will follow. For past the final breath the destinations are whole and preset, and I fear for who I am against the Almighty’s standards. My thoughts, I pray, remain my own, with the daily prayer for prayers that I may handle them in their hysteria. My hysteria. It does resonate quite often the notion of allowance. Am I allowed to pray for me? I prefer to pray for others, perhaps if I adjust my moral worth then others will pray for me. It is a hope. A vain hope. Vanity is disillusioning. I am not vain by physical standards, I am unappealing and it has never bothered me. But I am so wholly vain. I judge, by impulse most every time, and in possible atonement for this sin, I judge myself. Does suffering absolve transgressions? Is it simply my attempt to stifle anxiety? I have known love. Not love that is given, but love that is returned. I have lost love too. I admit my bravado is purely aesthetic, if my vanity so much as allows it to come across as such. I have lost love to another’s decision, and the simplicity of empathy has changed me by changing her, in a manner of speaking my own conscious mind loves her, and I believe always will, and underneath, I cannot have peace with her. It has changed me, I fear for worse, in that I cannot forgive. It was never mine, it was ours. Before her, I was only blind to what self worth could be, and in absence of her since I have labeled every lesson and improvement false, and have decided further that I should absolve my self again for following a fiction for as long as I did. I am so low. In absence of love returned, do I awake to greet responsibilities in hopes of love returning? I turned so stiff and brittle before I knew of love returned. I can feel it in my knees already once more. I believe in cause and effect, not karma. I do not believe in an incorporeal force that turns the tides against the wicked. Abuse a dog and the dog will eventually attack, so long as the poor creature has not succumbed to its rotten lot. I do not submit, it is sin, I know. I would bite. I do bite. With a spearheaded tongue and wit that cuts deep and amuses me. Probably only me. Until there is a verified and tangible operation of telepathy, I cannot pretend to know one’s thoughts. The filters and shape shifting dynamics of my own thoughts to spoken symbols is radically different, in tone and meaning. So how can I love? What is love? A triggered response to an individual’s recognition, the release of oxytocin in the synapse that warms one’s blood and physiologically changes one’s internal dynamics? Would I say that only in an attempt to impress? Impress who? I hate myself, and yet I am the only one I talk to lately. Should I change narrative perspective? Can you feel love again? You knew it once, love that is returned, not inherent. Or did you? Was love ever inherent? Is it only inherent? Do you believe in predestined things? You don’t seem confident enough to grasp the notion in a mature manner. No, I do not, and to talk to myself as myself is maddening, and accusatory. I am low. Mirrors are frightening, not for my hideousness, I am resigned and indifferent. It is because when I speak, and see the movement of my lips, I strive to accept my criticisms, me, the utmost untrustworthy source, because I am low. How can I believe these utterances as truth, when I hold no value in my words, my self, the speaker? Was I ever raised, or at least at sea level? If love is inherent then I am just talented in hiding and delaying being found. If love is only true in reciprocity, then I must be as low as can be. If I was strong, and that boulder had drawn my chains taut, how long should I remain firm for the saltwater to diminish that rock to a pebble. I kid myself, my rock likely is a mere pebble, and still I strain against its weight and fear its descent. These are not the ravings of a psychotic. I know psychosis. I am a scholar of the mind, though in humility accept the shallow puddle that is my depth of knowledge. I am only low, and cannot find an answer in all my readings that can lift me up in spirit and temperance. The moon is setting, and soon again I will rise, unsure as to the reasons, with many, many questions that I have asked before. Is it for God, love, angst? Peace? Or is it due to one of these things, or many, or all? Is it against? Am I naught but defiant, to such a degree of defying myself? It cannot be symptomatic, because I know depression. So I scribe this letter to none but myself, a scared little boy with a girl’s name. In simple words, I am low.