The Older I Get

I’ll turn thirty-five later this year in September. Crazy how much faster time moves, the older I’ve grow. Seems like I just turned thirty, yesterday. Time must be a concept of the mind, that we are all bound to.

However, that’s not relevant to this post.

If I just had the brain injury, maybe my life would be different at this point in time. The problem for me is, I also have a personality disorder. Most likely some kind of variation of borderline personality disorder, without a doubt.

At this point, I don’t blame anyone. I don’t blame myself. I used to write relationship stories, where the relationship falls through, and the main characters go their separate ways. Because that’s pretty much how my life has worked out, thus far. I’ve been in countless relationships. By the end of 2021, I realized that, I needed to take a break from dating. I knew enough by 2021 about myself that, if I didn’t make radical changes within, any relationship was doomed to fail.

The shitty part is, even now in March of 2023, I feel that, it may not be possible to make these radical changes within. Sadly, I cannot remove my personality disorder. I can’t repair my damaged brain. It’s literally impossible to change those major facts about who I am as a person.

Also shitty that I’m a man. By that I mean, society still deems me the bread winner. Which is fucking stupid, but- it is what it is. This is shitty because I may never win serious bread, aka, money. In fact, my neuro psych said to me once, “you need to see yourself as someone who’s retired”. He meant that, I needed to see myself as someone who didn’t have to consider getting a job, even part time. Why, you ask? Because, as I’ve said several times before, I was deemed mentally incompetent to hold and maintain even a regular part time job in the American workforce industry.

Lost that money, don’t need to get into specifics. May never get that money back. Again, super shitty.

The most fucked up part about this? People don’t understand mental illness. Most people want to be sympathetic, but they have no fucking frame of reference unless either they themselves are mentally ill, or a close family member (mom, dad, son, daughter, brother or sister) is mentally ill. Otherwise, people don’t fucking get it.

They chalk it up to immaturity, childish behavior. On the surface, yes- that’s exactly how it comes across. But it’s deeper than that, for people who suffer from a severe mental illness. It’s not a fucking choice, sometimes. Especially with a personality disorder, jeez, good fucking luck. It took me ten years to obtain my bachelors degree, BECAUSE of social issues, with my peers. I’ve never been able to hold a job for longer than eight months, BECAUSE of social issues.

Even talking about this until I’m blue in the face, it won’t matter. That again is severely fucked up, for me. Why? Because, I’ll get older, and people will loathe me even more, because I’m an immature childish asshole. That’s how I’ll get tagged. Or, that I’m a potential threat to the safety of myself and others. BECAUSE of the tattoos, in large part. But also because of how I deliver my anger. It’s so genuine and passionate, that, it often scares the shit out of people. Another disservice to myself, which, I do every thing I can to not let that happen.

Without support, without a live-in girlfriend, or wife, it’s really a fucking struggle. This isn’t a call to the single ladies out there. It’s just me saying, this is so much more difficult without a ride or die companion to help me navigate the murky waters of my tormented mind. I don’t blame anyone, because, I realize I am a lot to handle. I might be too much to handle. That hurts, a lot. It’s not my fault, either. I don’t wake up in the morning and say, “today, I’m going to struggle with my identity”. It’s not a choice, do you understand? It’s a fucking curse, is what it is.

I’ll continue onward, like a goddamn cockroach (I think this is also misspelled, but at this point I don’t give a shit, I’m talking about the bug that most everyone despises) who can’t die from nuclear radiation. Oof. What a life. What a life, indeed.

Don’t pity me. You can’t help me from a distance, either- I’ve tried it with many, it never works. Hell, it has yet to work in person, so don’t feel too bad. There must be something, some kind of sanctity I can find. To bring in enough dough to secure my home shelter, take care of my dogs, eat, bathe. If I’m basically destined to be alone, I want to at least make sure I can provide for myself. Because, it’s really possible that no one else will help provide for me, for the rest of my life.

Oh well, I’m going to smoke some cannabis. That always helps.

Philip Webb

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