Do you ever feel like you’re watching yourself fuck up?

I hate this. When you feel like you are outside yourself watching you fuck things up and create messes and burden people and yet you can’t seem to stop you. Then when the destruction is over and the mess has been made, it’s like you’re watching yourself standing in the wreckage and all you can do is belittle you for being such a fucking idiot. 

No one could ever abuse me better than I can. All I hear is how stupid I am. How this is exactly why I should be alone. I just don’t know when to stop. When to shut up. When to leave my issues to myself rather than burdening people with constant questions of reassurance that things are ok. They don’t feel ok but I think I’m in a different world. 

I just want to burst into tears right now. I am filled with so much shame I feel like it’s swallowing me. I hate me. I hate that this is happening and I am not equipped to get out of it.

I want to SH. I just really feel like i need punished for being such a defective human being. God I am worthless. I’m hurting.


5 thoughts on “Do you ever feel like you’re watching yourself fuck up?

    1. I so wish I could have. I was at work and had to settle for music at my desk. I had to fight back some tears from time to time but I managed. Thank you!

  1. One of my favorite quotes from one of my revered Heroes. I even use it as the signature on my e-mails:

    “I’m like my own Mafia, you know. Breaking my own knees.”
    And yes, I watch and re-live every frame of the epic.

    I also spent most of last night in tears.
    Left me drained today, but a certain sense of relief.

    Many hugs, many good thoughts heading your way.

  2. Sometimes, especially after a bout with Anxiety, I am very susceptible to a period of intense Depression. That’s kind of where I found myself.
    I’ve been working on an Appeal for Social Security Disability. The whole process has been going on for over a year. The lawyer handling it for me up until now has been a worthless buffoon: didn’t even contact the Therapist I’ve been seeing since the beginning of the year, didn’t introduce into evidence a letter from my former Supervisor saying I couldn’t handle the work any more, and never brought up to the Judge at the hearing that Kaiser basically denied me on-going therapy instead sending back to one class after another where they “graduate” you after two whole weeks all set to face the world.
    DBT classes, and Marsha Linehan – the doctor who developed DBT – included in the program a minimum of one year of individual psychotherapy for a minimum of one session per week.
    Never got more than once, maybe twice a month.
    And he didn’t address the supporting evidence I supplied that Kaiser was fined $4Mil by the state of California for “insufficient / inadequate Mental Health care” and caught them cooking the books regarding their appointments.
    The Judge expected me to walk into the Court acting like Danny De Vito in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest”. Expected me to act certain ways because I claimed Depression (I guess I was supposed to sob hysterically), Anxiety (I guess I was supposed to chew the table down to its feet) and ADHD (so I was supposed to bounce off the walls).
    I never said I have ADHD. It’s ADD. No hyperactivity.
    It’s like I said, could you tell that Catherine Zeta-Jones is Bi-Polar on the basis of seeing her on Jimmy Kimmel or Ellen for twelve minutes?
    So handling the Appeal on my own is bringing up the frustrating issues I thought would be resolved by now.
    I told the lawyer to get lost. Told him he knows the law better than I do, but I know how to collect evidence better than him:
    I once used a stack of twenty-two money order receipts with no information printed on them to prove a lady was hiding as much as $6,000.00 per month income in a Child Support case I had handled.
    So it will be a long, difficult process getting ready for the Appeal, but needs to be done.
    And the slightest little connection I make in my mind can set off the Deptression. The Anxiety is always there, like a meth-freak Gibbon whispering in my ear non-stop, but the Depression is the 800 pound gorilla waiting to jump out of the closet.

    Thanks for you concern.
    And let me know what you think about a Skype with my wife.

    Take care.

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