What Stifles Me?

When feeling that I ought to do something with my energy, millions of reason rise up in me persuading me in remaining inert.

Where do these energies go, then? Where could they possibly go? I believe that for most of my life they have actually been focused into sex, specifically through pornography usage... pornography addiction. The source of this addiction was precisely because it had so much 'weight,' 'valence,' 'force,' focused into it, that I simply could not do without it. It was a vessel into which I could pour all of these affects, all of those vile things that I had not let myself express at the time. They found themselves played out in these lonesome, loathsome, acts of masturbation and need for pornography. I still struggle with allowing these energies to present themselves, in whatever form they take, because I do not know what form they can take. Or rather, I do not believe they can take on a form that is safe, secure, and will not lead me into utter distress, disarray, and annihilation. This may sound crazy... but I fear going crazy.

Over the past 10 years, I have built up a mighty system of harnessing these energies, fleeting and fierce, into the mode of pornographic addiction. It was masterful, if I might say so. Whatever I felt throughout the day needn't come out then and there, in a wild, brazen, form. Instead, if I could suppress myself, shut down essentially, I could have full expression of the many things in my masturbatory fantasies. With pornography, I could conjure up any scene I imagined, any storyline I wished for was automatically there, and it was a domain that I could feel utterly alive in, and fall in line with, because the form was perfect for whatever thing I needed to 'exorcise' from me. I could experience, in full force, these energies, so to dump them out, eradicate them, via masturbation. It was as if 'finishing' became significant, a mode of finishing-off, or banishing, the emotions I was burdened with, that weighed heavy on me, and that I had no clue where else they could go to express themselves. Into the tissue, or toilet, or whatever... And this feeling of absolution lasts for only a few days, until the difficult, complicated, unmetabolised feelings spring up once more, and culminate, at least they did within me, as the feeling of 'horniness.' But over the years, especially over the last year and a half, I have become so accustomed to the difference in qualia, of quality, of an experience of horniness more truly focused on 'adult sexuality' that is, for me, attraction to a woman and the need to experience this in full force, versus an experience of horniness emanating from unresolved feelings, typically comprised of anger and social isolation, which sough to purge itself from my body and mind. They feel different, and boy, after the fact, upon finishing, the instant and soul-deadening guilt was a clear indication of how much other baggage hitched a ride in my sexual fantasies.

I wonder what people will say about all this? Will they 'get' it? Will they allow themselves to feel what I have been tormented by for the last 10 years? Maybe longer? Will they feel pity? That is certainly not what I want. I think pity is a reflection of one's inability to feel similarly for the other. Pity is when feeling stops short of true empathic understanding. When one pities another, the sufferer remains as they are, unchanged yet burdened by their load, only now they have an audience who entertains themselves, under the guise of 'feeling sorry' for them, yet at a distance. They dare not come closer to the sufferer, for they fear the cacophonous mix of despair and anxiety is contagious, and if they actually touched the sufferer, actually felt them, as they are, in all their suffering, that they could not cleanse themselves, could no longer 'wash their hands' of the whole affair. So... what will people think here? The aches of my heart are on full display... Maybe I hope someone will get it, someone will understand. It hasn't made much sense to me, at all, over the decade, and it is only now, only today, that I can put it into words such as these. I can describe it well, I think, and I can definitely feel it well. I feel it all too well. But the sense of these complicated, disturbed feelings inside me, and how I don't believe I have a sufficient outlet for them (or indeed, many outlets), amplifies my distress. I feel the thing, I feel the inarticulable complexity of my emotional life, but I can't do anything with it. I don't know where it goes? Where can it find itself that is creative, rather than in attempt to 'dump' the thing? If I want to go down the latter route, I have a great system in place. But the surety of my system had been crumbling, it didn't work. Afterwards, I would still be left with the feelings - the days of mental trickery where I didn't feel the thing had ceased. So I can't return to the dumping grounds. But it's like, over the last 10 years, all I learned was to be a garbage collector, a trash remover, and that's all I know. That's my repertoire of being. How can I be, how can I become, anything different? I desperately want to. My life depends on it. But I feel I do not possess the skills, any basic building blocks, to construct and find another mode of expression. Maybe it's writing, I'm doing that right now, but I feel not good enough in this domain, like the weight of my words aren't enough. I don't know to what degree this is true, but I am keenly aware of this sensation of 'not good enough' within me. Is my writing valid? Is it a worthwhile form of expression? It seems to be doing 'something' to me here, in this period of writing.

But the periods of writing are not natural... The build up to a session of writing is arduous and painstaking. I don't allow myself to just 'slip into' a time of writing. It seems like the stars and planets have to align in order for me to feel at ease. It's easy to masturbate, it's the same fucking motion time and time again - doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out. There is no 'creation' in that - there is nothing new. But also, exactly, there is nothing new, so the barrier to entry for that is so low, the lowest, it's so safe. Safe but disappointing. Secure but terrible, horrible - a reminder that I'm alone with nothing to show for it.

So... it's clear that I need to find modes of expression for these energies inside me. I need to trust that, in these expressions, I and the world will not implode or explode. I need to feel that the world can handle me. But there I need to discover the forms to harness those energies, so that people can understand me, so they can get me, and, maybe, so they can touch me. That's what I long for - for my work, my creation, to touch another in such a way, and despite the pain and torment, they feel the need to comfort me. They don't shout 'monster, monster!' They stay by, they remain close, the hear the suffering of my mind, they feel the whole panoply of pain I feel, they do not pity me, and they are not afraid of me. They remain with me, as I cry, as I weep, and they touch me, my shoulder, and they hold my hand, as I mourn and grieve the many years of my life I have lost to indecision and incertitude. They are with me as I wail, screaming at what I feel are unforgivable things that have happened to me, the warfare that was played out within me, how I was a proxy for others, how I never found my own voice, never believed I had a right to self-expression. Silent, I became and remained. And I have to grieve that. Because that is time lost that I'll never get back. A childhood I was stripped off and never got to fully lose myself in. I'm 23, turning 24, and I have never known what it's like to be child. I want to, but I don't know how. Please help me. If you know how I can get there, please tell me. I cannot do this myself. I have tried for 10 years, had become a master a rejecting parts of me. But I can't do this any longer. The pain is too great. Please help me. I need to believe I can express myself. That I won't feel guilty any longer. I need this. And I need someone to tell me I'll be ok. I have spent my whole life relieving others, reassuring them of their strength - but I need someone to, finally, affirm mine. I have doubted if I have any resilience, any creative force. I question it all the time. But I need you to tell me I matter, I need you to tell me you care. What am I doing anything for if no one is there to receive me? What do I matter if I touch nobody? Hear my voice, my plea. For the first time in my life, please tell me you hear me. Please show me I've touched you. There's nothing more I can do that beg, and express myself here. And please, don't pity me. Please feel what I feel, if you are able. If you can go into this with me. That's what I need. You and me to feel the thing together. Together we can be alright. Together we can endure it. Together we'll keep warm, interwoven limbs and beating hearts in time, amidst the cold.