On feeling useless
Feeling useless is just one of those feelings I get often, but now more than ever, at these times of such trials for everyone around me. They are the people I love the most and to see them suffering and being put through daily pain and torment is at times, overwhelming. I don’t do emotional anxiety very well, I am far too sensitive. I’d make an absolutely rubbish nurse; I am far better at putting up defences than breaking through to become the support that so many dearly need. Probably entirely selfish of me.
What is also selfish is to concentrate on how I am feeling at this time, but then self analysis has always been my thing. Over thinking is another term for it, taking every tiny nuance of a feeling, from a situation, from words spoken and imagined then raking over the coals of the fire they have ignited. Then again this is my blog and what else would it be for. You know, apart from all the buzzing sex.
Where was I. Yes, not able to be much of a help to those around me as I am too busy thinking and over thinking and being selfish. I seem to be able to support only in a few ways; by being a sexual creature, by being funny and witty, or by keeping out of the bloody way while others actually do the useful bit.
Which way is right at the moment? I’m trying all three just for good measure. I am very busy with work, writing all the hours I am sent apart from those where I am so worn out by the words carving ridges into my brain that I need to just lay in a low lit room and let them simmer down to the merest bubbles on the surface of the writer’s lake. A lake or fire and ice, never completely gone but often excruciatingly painful, either frothing and overflowing or frozen with the seductive fruits barely visible but beyond reach.
Out of the way and writing until my fingers hurt, my lips hurt from the constant chewing, my mind hurts from the constant word warfare and my bottom hurts from the being sat on it all day.
Being funny, I can do from time to time. Bolster spirits with a small joke here, a hot drink there, a witty remark about the day, nothing important. Don’t go too deep, you’ll find something upsetting. Careful what you say, remember the situation. Should I have said that? Too late, turn it into a joke.
Helping to offload the worry in the night, becoming sexual and being utterly devoted, submitting to desires rampant and forceful or gentle and intimate. Stress relieving in the good old fashioned way. Fuck the worries out, fuck your brains out, that’s where the problems are, you don’t need them anyway. Don’t think. Fuck. Harder. Fuck. Pull. Bite. Fuck. Fuck me. FUCK. Then to sleep, exhausted, in each other’s arms and restless nights filled with anxious dreams and nightmares of subconscious worries turned to images and demons that chase with their weapons and poisons.
I can’t do anything else and so it carries on, until the inevitable. Until that ending which will tear through us, which will sear us with its hurt, which will cause such a tumbling of tears that it will drown and the hurt will be too much to heal.
Fearing & knowing that day will come soon now, already devastated by seeing that tidal wave, even before it crashes on our shore.
I can’t do anything but work, and write and wait. I am utterly useless.