I am, at my core, a wispy and tenuous thing. For all my pretense and boisterous proclamations, I am a man a few convictions. Not a man, really. A child. A sad child, with no place to call home. This is why I've taken to twitter so thoroughly, I think. It's a place where I can find some measure of acceptance among people who share my interests. Were I to list my ten closest friends, seven would be people from twitter, at least. This is both a testament to it's all-inclusive impact upon my personal life and my own personal failings as a friend and as a social creature. I make friends well enough, when the mood to talk strikes me. I'm just piss poor at keeping them. Through no fault of their own, we grow apart. My fear of rejection is such that I'm rarely, if ever, moved to make any sort of commitment. Only strong bonds can survive such a process. Isolation is beautiful right up to the point where it's all you know.
In the past, the recent past, I thought this was a great reason (the best, probably) for me to become a writer. I'm decent enough at expressing my thoughts, and I have a not inconsiderable amount of knowledge on a great deal of things. It seemed to be the perfect career choice for someone with my...conditions (I've self-diagnosed countless times, but I don't ever see myself willingly accepting psychiatric treatment again. Not a good experience.). I thought writing was my calling. Until I actually tried it. The idea of someone, someone who I've probably never met, judging me by the things I've written in a state of emotion, terrify me to my very core. Even now, I'm shaking a bit just imagining you reading this right now. In the not so distant past, an acquaintance informed me that a possible avenue of employment (or at least recognition) would not be open to because of how I can act on twitter, from time to time. "Unstable," is a kind word for it. I understand completely. I wouldn't hire me.
While you may just cross this off as cowardice (which it certainly is, to some extent), it's almost certain that you, whoever you are, have felt doubt at some point. I'd venture to guess that you aren't human if not. At least not a human I would want to associate with. But I'd also venture to guess that you've never felt the sort of crushing doubt I've felt on a near daily basis for the past five years. It's gotten to the point where trying to articulate what it is is like trying to articulate how the sun feels. You can try, but you'll never fully grasp how deeply it runs in you.
If there's anything I can safely self-diagnose as, it's Avoidant Personality Disorder. I've always been shy and reserved, especially through high school (as was any nerd worth his salt). Hell, I didn't tell the woman I loved how I felt until nearly two years after graduation, and I'd had those feelings since Freshman year. Needless to say, that was not a successful endeavor (again, my fault). I would be lying if I said I'd never contemplated suicide, but I'd also be lying if I ever said I'd ever really pondered how I'd actually do it. It's not really something I feel would work. There'd be no music, for one. Music is, almost single-handedly, my tether to this world. I'd have died by now without it. Just ceased to be.
Regardless, this is where this little manifesto must come to an end. I'm tired, and this is already too long as it is. Just getting my thoughts out there on a another sleepness night with little hope. I'll never be a basketball writer.
