Does my mental illness make you laugh? Good.

All drugged up with nowhere to go

Recently, I’ve come to the momentous realisation that I literally have no fucking clue what I’m doing with my life.

It’s gotten so bad that I’m spending most nights awake, pounding away at my keyboard writing, in the hopes that my true calling will somehow reveal itself to me, like when Gabriel told Mary she was pregnant and was destined to be the mother of the son of god or whatever.

Needless to say (seeing as I’m still writing this), no such calling has come knocking on my door. These essays are really the only thing keeping me occupied, but I’ve recently realised that they are never going to see the light of day, so why bother? They’re online now (mostly so I can convince myself I’m working on a ‘project’), but I couldn’t bring myself to pony up the 40 dollars it’d take to actually register this website, so realistically no one is going to see this — let alone care. Also I honestly can’t bring myself to believe that people are still reading blogs in 2017.

A little backstory: I’ve always been a complete defeatist, ever since I was little and realised I wasn’t the best in the world at doing absolutely everything. This may not make sense to most of you, so all I’ll say is that my OCD — and yes, I have been formally diagnosed, which is why I’m all drugged up with nowhere to go — makes me an obsessive perfectionist. If this surprises you, you may want to take a moment to look up the full form of OCD. Anyway, what I was going to say was, If I’m not able to do something perfectly (which, given my standards, isn’t even remotely attainable), I don’t do it.

Which begs the question, what am I doing here? No idea. I’ll update this space with another post if I ever figure it out, but don’t hold your breath.

 

 

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