A poem

To you, my dear and sweet friend
Fuck you.
Your lies penetrate this heart
Causing ache beyond my ability to cope
Spun so sweetly
Delicately
Skillfully
These lies create hope and love
How is this so?
Evil creating good
You've made it happen
I should probably recognize your genius
But I won't.
I'm bitter and angry
False, crumbling around me
The structures of love and hope
Built upon a structure that never existed
My heart falls
And I cry

Light becomes a narrow pathway

There was two hours were normal thoughts resumed. Confidence flowed through like water from a fountain. I was complete again and perfectly content with my faults. From highs so exquisite come lows that torture the soul. I sat on Johnson field today, after my soccer game had concluded, with reality as my only companion. My phone was as I left it, empty of all contact. I knew no one in particular. A familiar face or two, but there were no friends here. Everyone seemed so happy, and I envied that. Their ability to deal, or at least fake, with life in general. I don't have that. The smallest things tend to cause a panic deep within myself. A panic so limiting that I become a shell of the person most know me as.
This shell is cramped, and only my doubts fit in here with me. Doubts that fester and disease my mind the longer I am contained in here. Whenever I emerge, I bear the scars of this experience. Scabs that form over my soul and remind me of past. These scabs never fully heal, there is always a remnant that remains as a reminder. Worst of all, the shell stinks of my own hatred. Putrid and choking, I cannot breathe in here. My hatred for myself is so strong that it over powers logic, love and sympathy. I scoff at friend's attempts to ease my burden. I never accept what they say as truth, as I feel I know my own imperfections better than they do.
I'm right, I do. That doesn't mean others can't help. An undertone of pride always is contained in my hatred. Pride that does not allow me to seek help and solace from others. I fall back into the black pit that is my shell and live here. Days, weeks and months pass by as I peek out during opportune moments. Life is so beautiful, I want a taste. The allowance of a field trip into the outside is always carefully controlled, by myself. Life free from the devastating lows of my depression never last more than a couple months, before I find myself back in the mire. Struggling to move as I sink deep. Soon my breath is labored and I begin to think of the most plausible way of death. The storm is passing for now, I leave my shell. I hope this time it is for good.

Freedom Found Here

The last post is barely a newborn, but I'm already back for more. I feel safe here. Tapping away at my keyboard in my quiet house. In a state of mind where I can let the full nature of my emotions drench my mind. Saturating my being with the absolute depth the human condition. The ability to feel.
I can't say I'm alright. I would be lying in a place of honesty. So I won't say that. I am not alright, in fact I feel as vunerable as I ever have before. However, there is a cathartic feeling here. I can whip and abuse myself. Free from the prying eyes of the world. Those pitying stares and empty words of supposed empathy are nonexistent here. I can act myself and allow my emotions to clearly perform for an audience of one. An audience of myself.
The things I feel, the way I feel them and how I act upon my feelings has never seemed normal to me. Happy thoughts are usually a smile away while deep depression is always present. I want to be clean, be proud of my imperfections. Understand that I am sinful and accept salvation. That is difficult to accept right now. My pride doesn't allow me to accept what is free, because I haven't earned it.
That sounds so idiotic when the words sit in front of you. How many things or privelages have I earned my life? I was born in a free country, with a family that loved me and an oppurtunity to succeed in my education. I didn't deserve that. I have been given friends that are loyal throughout. What have I done to warrant this? My parents love me despite my faults. There is no payment I could make to cover this debt.
My sadness stems from my guilt. I have been given so much, to do so little with it. While others suffer, I sit and explore my feelings. I have that freedom, that "right." How do I deserve that? I don't. It hurts me to say that, but I don't. And I just want to give it up. Let someone else have it.

The Floor

At this point, I don't have many cares left in this world. My faith is weak. My strength is weak. That ever present phrase I repeat day in and day out, "press on", has lost its meaning. I'm alone, or at least that's how I feel. I would be willing to place a large bet that this will go unread, which is the main reason I'm posting this. My feelings will ultimately be scattered to the far reaches of the unimaginable depths of the internet. They most likely will never be found, and I kinda hope they stay that way.
The pain and sadness that covers me right now is stifling. I can barely breathe or speak to others without bursting. Whether in anger or sadness. These emotions run deep, no amount of anti-depressants have fixed this problem. Will it ever get better? I can't honestly answer that. I'm scared of both outcomes. Hoping for healing, wishing for this promise to come true and only seeing failure is to much to bear right now. Settling for a miserable existence is much to pessimistic, but then again I haven't been positive lately.
Even with the thought of being alone, I can't help but wonder if someone might stumble upon this. Read and digest what I'm saying only to leave in disgust with a click of their mouse. That seems possible, likely in fact. I'm not terribly interesting. I don't have a story to explain my sadness. One day I woke up and realized things were not the way they used to be. Emotions were extreme. My often joyfulness would be replaced in a matter of minutes by stoic silence. Behind the silence was a fight between my powerful doubt in myself and my faith that I was worth something to Jesus Christ. I still believe that I'm worth something, or at least I say I do. The words the come from my mouth, pertaining to myself, often carry a double meaning. I say one thing in order for friends and family to feel at ease with my condition, but secretly know how deep my problems lie. I smoke, I drink and I chase women. According to the secular world I am normal. Another male seeking to fulfill his needs and wants with various degrees of success. To my family, these issues show that I have not fully developed my decision making abilities yet. I'm not sure which Thad I want to be. The one that impresses the world or the one that my family is happy with.
I have desire to fulfill my dreams or ambitions that I dream of. I'm to busy trying to guess what other people want me to do. I'm trapped in my own game of pleasure and I get none from a positive outcome. There is nothing that can fulfill me now, in this moment. I'm far from what I used to be. Content and driven. Now all that remains is an empty pattern of lust and drunkenness. Fuck you Thad for being weak. Fuck you Thad for not knowing what you want. Fuck you Thad, it's best if you just go.