Unbecoming.

Sometimes I despise who I am.
Who I have become.
Am becoming.
It is unbecoming of a man to feel this broken and helpless despite the helping hands being presented.
I have cried more times in the last year than in my entire adult life, and feel powerless to resist the clawing darkness and feelings of unworthiness which stop me in my tracks before I can even decide on which actions to take.
I sit silently seething while scouring my thoughts for a response to your statement which I deem suitable to satisfy you, but as the time passes, my ability to assess the situation has been clouded further by fear of exacerbating the issue.
It has been said that “it is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open ones mouth and remove any doubt’” and often I live too well by these words and waste opportunities to feel well within and dwell on the darkness, watching myself throwing myself away with my minds eye.
Whenever I summon the courage to actually voice my opinion, I panic and blurt half constructed thoughts which are immediately shot down as surely as a clay pigeon at “PULL!”
I feel it’s because I feel things, like an instinct and react on that instincts advice but can’t really explain how I arrived at that conclusion.
The meds don’t work as I feel they should but then how would I know? I’m depressed. I’m on medication. I’m a nutter.
The conveyor belt of rejection continually lurches towards me while I fight against it and it’s Escher inspired pitfalls, each idea an abstract of my thought defeated by the binary filter of those around me.
I thought my lot in life was to lift those around me with laughter and lucidity but once again, and with increasing frequency I realise that there’s a good chance that I am the arsehole that I feel like.