From: anon-1016@twwells.com (Prisoner)
Newsgroups: alt.sexual.abuse.recovery
Subject: does anybody want ME?
Date: 12 Nov 92 12:53:09 GMT
Organization: Anonymous Posting Service at twwells.com
X-Email-Accepted: yes

Don't read this unless you're able to deal with nasty stuff....

Yeah, everyone wants a piece of me. My wife wants me to be kind
and caring, so I oblige. The people at work want the products of
my mind, so I'm giving it to them. Those who run stuff through my
computer want service and help, so I do my best. And on it goes.
People want my skills. But no one wants ME.

See, I am not the administrator of my computer, or the genius
programmer and sometimes philosopher, or the caring husband I
appear to my wife. Those are just the things I do, the face I
present to the world.

Buried under all the work, hidden by the tension of my body,
pushed out of consciousness, that's where the real me, the me
that is not only a surface, is. But who'd want that? I sure as
hell don't. Sorry for the pity party, people, but I'm feeling
self-pitying right now. Why not? Nothing I do will make any
difference. There's a large part of me that wants to just drop it
all and go with my feelings, to tell the people at work, my wife,
the people who rely on my computer, to FUCK OFF, that I'm TIRED of
trying to be when all that being is is pain or numbness or
unconsciousness. I really don't know what it is that keeps me
going. I can't pretend that it's a sense of obligation or what.

I can't figure it. I keep thinking that all this hurting is just
a fake, that the only reason it is there is that I do it is for
attention. But I can't accept that: I spent ten fucking years not
telling anyone. Was I just hoping that they'd notice anyway? And
on top of that, the inescapable logic: no one with their head
screwed on straight is going to spend themselves that way. But I
can't unravel the knot past there.

I know why I don't drop it, of course: if I did that, I'd starve.
It's just me paying my way. Stupid me hates physical pain, it's
why I'm not dead, and I tell myself that starving to death isn't
a fun way to go. Well, bullshit. Someone would come and take me
away, no doubt, stick me in a fucking mental hospital, maybe
overdose me again. Hey, did you know that ODing on Thorazine is a
really nasty trip? Ask my young teen self how I know!

Mind's wandering. Of course, that's what I'm trying to make it
do. If I engage my intellect, you'll all just hate me again.
Yeah, call me FMS, you motherfuckers. Rot in hell, you.

Oops. Forgot the spoiler. Well, here: WARNING, DANGER, SPOILER,
DEEP BURNING

		****RAGE****

Do you know how much rage I feel? I want to destroy things. You,
me, the computer screen, everyone, EVERYTHING. My body is shaking
with the rage I know is there but can't let out. The adrenalin is
flowing and I'm right in there with the fight or flight. But fight
what? Flee from what? I want to tell you how very, very angry I
am, with you, with everyone, with me, my wife. I want to *FEEL*
that. But I can't. Only little spurts, quickly suppressed.

What to do with this malevolent monster? Stuff it back? But that's
death. He is me and what I have to deal with. Let it out? You've
already driven me away, for much less an offense. I can do neither
so I do a little of both and find that as with any compromise, I
get the worst of both alternatives. I neither let it out and I am
distanced anyway.

I was about to say "This is going to kill me..." but I don't know
that that's true. Hell, I've lasted this long, right? I oughta be
able to deal with another decade of purgatory. And once I've
managed that, one more. Hey, only fourty more years to go.
Someone once told me they were comforted by that thought, that
their life had an end. But if that's how it is to be, I WANT IT
OVER NOW!

Shit. I started with "does anybody want me". Thinking not, I hurt.
Please don't answer and say that I'm valuable to you this way or
that way; that just misses the point. Is there anyone who will
want me, as I am, hate, rage, self-pity, perversions and all?
None and I know it. Yes, I understand the reality: everyone has
their own shit to deal with and mine is much too much for anyone
to deal with.

Including me.

You know, I've not been totally out of contact; I've tried to
keep e-mail contact and the occasional phone contact. But it isn't
helping. I'm not real. It's all fake. It feels fake and it looks
fake.

It's funny. Once upon a time, I said to someone that if there is a
thing I want and it's important to me and it's something that has
to come from people, I may not have it. Well, he didn't believe
it. But it's true. However you look at it, no one in their right
mind will put up with me long enough. And if they might, I'll fuck
it up so that they won't, right? It sure seems that way. Just look
at my history here.

Oh, goddamn. Whining and, soon I'll bet, sulking. Well, maybe not.
I've been awake 24 hours and maybe I'll get to sleep before I do
that. I hope so. Welcome to my life.

Well, not really. Do you realize that if you met me in person
you'd have no idea of this stuff? I've gotten so good at faking
it that only those people who have known me for years and you on
the net would imagine that this stuff is buried underneath. My
wife sure as hell doesn't have the foggiest. I keep pretending
because that's all that I can do.

Sure, can you see it? Oh, boss, I hate to tell you this but for
the last year, I've only been working half the time; the rest of
the time I've spent in a massive depression. And it isn't going
to get any better, either. Instant pink slip, for sure. And, [my
wife], you have made my life absolutely miserable by not being
the sort of person I can confide in. And you've made it worse by
hanging around with that man, doing it in spite of my expressed
unhappiness about it. Just how stupid do you think I am? Divorce
city, here we come. Yes, and for the people who use my computer:
hey, folks, you know that helpful stuff from the administrative
account? Well, inside that man is someone who might just decide
to jump off a bridge one day, leaving you all in the lurch. Yeah,
that's the way to build confidence.

Yeah. Right.

I'm not going to say those things; with any luck, I won't even
follow the worst case scenarios. What I will do is keep hiding,
stay huddled in the corner of my life, pretend that all is well
for as long as I can. Pretend that I'm alive.

Is any of this getting through?


Prisoner



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