Had to Pull Over: Thoughts on Coming Home in early August

This is going to be kinda random and jumpy.  If anyone actually reads this.  Which they won't.

I'm back from New Orleans.  I had to pull over twice on the road home from the airport because I was sobbing so hard that I couldn't see.

I'm home.  Flat broke.  I had to beg my wife for money to borrow for my share of the rent.  I'm useless, worthless, and  have no future

The Darkness has me.  I feel useless, and the fact that I can't find a job makes me worthless.  I spent more money than I had helping people I will never meet, and who will never know what I did.  And, the trip being over, I have NOTHING to look forward to.

Nothing.

The New Orleans trip was the last thing I had planned.  Now, nothing.  September will be here soon- and I HATE September.  It's the month I lost my marriage (technically that was August 31 I think, but I'm not quibbling.)  It's the month I lost Lisa.  It's the month I was born, and I hate it most of all for that.

Me.  Now.  Typing this.

I don't tell people my feelings anymore.  I tell people this, they get angry and tell me it's my fault because I don't think positively.  One fact I've had burned into my soul: I can never tell people the Truth about how I feel.  Oh and it's my fault because I travelled, and put money into an account for my daughter.

I just want the depression to end.  I cannot remember a day without it- literally.

And if I say that, people threaten to have me hauled off to a hospital.  I have sworn I will never, ever go back to one of those.

Insomnia when I desperately want this day to end.

I don't think I'll be writing about the New Orleans trip. I think I'm done with writing.  No one is reading what I write, and it doesn't make me content anymore. Doesn't help.  Last thing Im posted still hasn't broken 100 views.  I used pull that in an hour.  No one gives a shit any more.  Why should I?  I still have my little writing books that I keep filling.  I suppose I should put them all in one box.  Then throw that box away.  Then those thoughts will be gone, unheard.  As they should be.

I volunteer to help others and lose lots of money in the process.  I'm done with volunteering. You want me to help- pay me.  This weekend, I debated a bunch of entitled kids who have been taught to hate and mock anything different.  But, I managed, with help, to get passed a trans-positive motion for my fraternity.  And the people who will benefit?  They'll never know about the 18 months of work several people put in on it, or the debate, or the insults I endured.  They wouldn't care if they did know.  I was invited to New Orleans by the fraternity.  I thought more costs would be covered.  And maybe I'll be reimbursed for some of the outlay.  Eventually.

I shouldn't care about that.  One person of facialbook wrote me: "Most people don't volunteer to help others expecting something in return. They do it from their heart and soul."  Well, so did I. Past tense. All its gotten me is a zero bank balance, PTSD, and wounds that can never heal.  

I did this for a fraternity which, when I was an undergrad, 95% of the brothers didn't want me around.  Many actively hated me.  But, I'd sworn an oath, and my word is all I have.

I used to believe that all the sadness and pain I endure would be balanced out by happiness and good in my life.  That there HAD to be balance.  When I was a teen, that kept me alive.  I now know that thought was absolutely wrong.  There is NO balance.  And if there is, my suffering is balanced by the happiness and ease of someone else's life.

I often think of myself as an old toy, neglected and forgotten when the child outgrows it.  I use that metaphor often in my journals.  An object which has no function but to bring happiness, fun, laughter and joy, sitting silent and still.  Do they long for the child to return and play with them?  (Kinda Toy Story, I know, but I think about it.)  I wrote about this on my old guy blog once.  

When I'm gone, my wife will probably put my dead name on my urn instead of my legal name.  An echo.  A memory.  And if it brings her comfort so be it.  I've hurt her enough.

Melatonin is finally kicking in.  Maybe I can fall asleep.  Maybe when I wake up tomorrow, the Darkness won't have me by the throat.  But I'll still be unemployed.  And worthless.