Stare into the abyss…

and they say, the abyss stares back into you.

I have decided to try writing about my depression. It has been with me since I was around 6 years old.

Over the years I have accepted that speaking about it, actually alleviates the horror of it.

My depression is entirely based in one basic fundamental construct that I can´t seem to make sense of; The fact that people do really mean things.

Trivial and naive you may say.

But as a 47 year old man, who has travelled the world since I was a boy, and read more than I knew existed, and realized all my childhood, adolescent and adut dreams — it still haunts me.

There are cruel people.

For me there wasn't any one singular Nemesis. The adults in my childhood where caught in an everlasting drama. No-one liked each other. Yet everyone pretended or tried to work, in family constellations they should never have been in to begin with.

I have learned since then that at least two of the most defining people of my childhood were a combination of one psychopath, and one pathologic narcissist.

It was a trail of dominance and abuse. Manipulation and violent dominance.

Many years I was filled with a deep rage that consumed me. A hatred of the kind of arrogant lack of self awareness that comes with having what is inacurrately described as “happy childhood” and steady familyrelations.

To be honest, my childhood is the stuff of nightmares. So to the point, that my scattered family came to fear me, thinking that perhaps “this time” I would finally entirely lose it, and start doing things like shooting people from the local water tower or axe-murdering.

When I was 11 years old I had run away, to escape one insane social construct — my only option, I believed, was one only slightly less insane.

I am fortunate.

Through all that perspired I never questioned, that what was going on was not wrong. It was evident. Everything was wrong that could be wrong.

But what I could never figure out, was how come, some individuals could actually get away with violence, and even murder — while others only had to wear the wrong jacket to ostracized.

It became an obsession. I learned strategies by watching, and imitating — with age I slowly became more aware.

Dissociation is a troublesome thing, in many ways, but it also carries graces.

Hyper-vigilance, is an immensly energy-demanding dysfunction — but it saved me a lot of physical disciplining.

When you are as scared as I was, for the most part of childhood, you cut the tie to Ego, as well as Self. Everything becomes a question of knowing everything. Everything. Understanding every single detail.

Because everything really does mean something.

As exhausting and insane as this is; It is also a learning discipline.

I can´t seem to get the spring morning out of my being when I abandoned the idea of ever trying to be one of the group. As my mother was going through one of her, very justified, horrendous panic-attacks — broken, in hopeless sorrow, with her gun, trying to figure out how she could muster up the courage to kill herself.

She never could. Instead she poisoned herself to death, and died at 52, from Cirrhosis.

I sat outside. Listening. Waiting. Finally something in me gave up. I figured that “I can´t just sit here and wait. I have to go. I am alive. It´s not my pain.”

I got up and was about to walk out of the house, when it struck me that, to begin with, I didn't know where to go.

I thought about where I would want to be. Since it seemed like a meaningful question to ask myself. Here is where the trouble started. I could not honestly find an answer. Every single adult human being I knew — were full of lies in their own right.

They all claimed one thing — but acted in other ways. They all harmed either themselves, or others — in way of words, or actions, or both.

They were all painfully predictable, and transparent. There were no safe places to go. I came to the conclusion that the thought of home, or safety, or family was merely a delusion.

The words — still as clear in my mind as they were then “Well that means that nothing matters. It does not matter. They will all do whatever the hell they do, regardless of what anyone else says, what anyone else wants, or what anyone else does. Without even seeing it, they act without real will. They are remotecontrolled by their own desire to control”.

And so I took a very long walk.

Exhaustion always helped kill my darkest thoughts and emotions — and this time it helped as well.

I have tried to die thousands of times. Just to lay down and give up. To tell God or Nature taht I resign. I give up. None of this is anywhere near anything that I percieve as joyful, or caring or meaningful.

One day it work. One day I will actually get to close my eyes and not have to open them again.

Over the years I have learned that there are people who aren´t entirely driven by domination, corruption, or filled with distain, and harbouring delusions of supremacy or inferiority. Still — most are in one way or many, poorly equipped when it comes to their relationship with reality.

I still meet people who adress me and speak to me in belittling terms, and who mistake my fairly softspoken demeanour as some form of stupidity or odd expression of disfunctionality.

I know they can´t help it.

They are acting in accordance with their social programming. Trying to communicate in whatever terms of language and approach they can.

But I often feel as if I am a thousand years old, speaking to children. It´s a deeply sad and unsettling feeling.

I knew that I was nothing, in my family. I was at most, a thing to present and display. A curious miracle child who could reiterate long historic passages, who could explain connectivities and constellations; A token marvel, to pick out of the seclusion I was mostly sentenced to, and after a while chose — to impress the world outside. A blonde little circus-act all in my right. “Look! It not only dances, and sings, it can tell you the history of kings and queens, of politicians and stock-markets!” Applause. “Now scram!”

I came to hate everyone.

Not so strange.

It took me until I 36 years old to actually go to a psychologist. I should have gone earlier; but I still believed I was the freak.

I am not.

I am one of the few sane people I have ever come across in the entire world.

It is excruciating at times.

But most of the time it´s a low-intensity churning and quitely horrific sadness.

I was a pet, at most — in my family. A novelty, to display to strangers. The dogs had higher rank.

It took me 47 years to understand it wasn't´t personal.

Psychopaths, and pathological Narcissists exist in their own bubble of reality. Everything in their existance is subjective delusion. They create their reality as they go along. Everyone else are merely props, to their story.

But it´s not a story. Real life actually takes place.

The phantasms of delusional grandeur creates out of nothing.

The rest of us, are left going — “What the fuck just happened? What did I just experience? Why would anyone do something like that?”

I am 47 years old, and I am so tired of hurting.

I am going to try writing myself out of depression. I can´t say I believe it will work. But I am going to try.

I am not trying to make sense. Nothing makes sense. And when it does — it´s usually an expression of someones devious plan.

Some people are just that, and I can´t figure out how that can be. Devious.

Most people actually believe themselves to be really smart.

I know for a fact that they are not. Not at all.

/PD

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