7/22/2019
The window

"I'm here if you want to talk" is something I've heard a bunch of times before.

More often that not, though, it feels like I can't. It feels like, when I do, nobody will make the time for me. Well, perhaps they would, but half-heartedly. Oh, here he is again, whining about his problems. And I get that. Nobody wants to hear about other people's problems, not if you have your own to think about, and especially not if you have none to think about. You'll try your best to appease him and then, maybe after five minutes, you'll just leave the conversation, and hope he assumes you're busy, and understand.

Yeah, I do. That's why I write these things. The consequence is, I still look like a guy who just whines about his problems rather than get to work on them. But then, what really is my problem? I'm awake at half past one in the morning, uncomfortable, and in this quiet I realize that I feel alone. But you're in a relationship. And it's not a loveless one, no. But even if people insist you are loved, you will feel alone. It's not something I can explain. It's not something I think of all the time. But it's half past one, and I am awake when I shouldn't be, and I feel alone.

Sometimes I think it's my ADHD. Now, I've been taught never to use that as an excuse for my behavior, but right now I don't really have any other plausible explanation. It must be why I get restless when I feel nothing is happening, and right now is when nothing is happening - it's the middle of the morning, after all, and everybody is asleep. Well, most, because I look outside the window and the neighbors still have their lights on. Still, this silence is bothering me and I end up brooding about things, and most likely I brood about myself. Self-pity party of one. Oh, here he is again, whining about his problems.

Well, I don't really have anybody to confide in. I am held back either by the knowledge (or the assumption, because you're right and I'm wrong) that you don't really want to hear any of this, or the knowledge (or assumption) that me telling you will just challenge our patience and perhaps our well-being, too. Might as well keep this to myself, at least until I decide I have to sit down and write all of this out. In public.

I really shouldn't be writing this out here, but, well, what else can I do? I am just distracting myself, and maybe somewhere down the line my inattention will lead me to a new tab, and I will lose my train of thought, and I will throw all these words out, and it's as if I never felt this way to begin with, at least for this morning. Better that than lingering at the thought that... what if I crash my way through this window? It's big enough. I've mapped out where my body will land. It's right beside the parking entrance. The security guards will see the life drain out of me the moment gravity does its work, and they won't be able to do anything about it.

I'm not getting distracted by something else.

Outside of that scenario, there really is no way out. I've been told that the problem is that I'm too antagonistic, I'm too brooding, I'm too worried about things that are ultimately out of my reach. If I'm being honest, I don't know how to not be any of those things. I can only complain about not being surrounded by people who will readily listen to my worries. Am I asking for special treatment? Perhaps. What makes me worth that? Nothing, really. I've accepted that, and at the same time, I haven't. I don't want to. It cannot just be my fault, like they all imply. I've had this conversation many times before and it always ends with me being at fault. Honestly, I don't like that. It can't just be me.

But maybe it is me. Does that mean I'm doomed to wake up at unusual times of the day wondering if all of this is worth it? The window looks appealing.

I just want to go back to sleep again. I have a lot of work to defer for tomorrow (which is Tuesday, technically). I'm tired as it is, and there is no way out, and they will all say it's really up to me. The window looks really appealing.

And your responses...

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