Don't know what else to say... feel like I don't even have the energy to explain myself and have no one to turn to. I've now had to resort to writing a kind of diary to try and exorcise my demons because there's no one to talk to, so maybe I'll just post some of that.
Thought I might search around some forums to see if anyone has any words of good advice... useful stuff rather than patronising lies like 'it will all be ok in the end' or 'you're not ugly, everyone is beautiful, just have confidence' /sigh and ugh - it doesn't take a genius to see that statements like that don't hold up to any critical probing ;-(
Apologies for how long, pretentiously worded, cringe-makingly self-pitying and dull this is... you probably only need to pick a paragraph to get the gist - I never wrote it with the intention of sharing it, but it saves me re-living it all by explaining everything again...
Why do I have to hate myself so much that I feel this constant pain in my gut and throat whenever I’m left alone with my thoughts? Why do I have to cover it up because I’m so ashamed to be so miserable? Why am I now so alone that the only recourse I have for cathartic relief is a silent soliloquy to myself? Is there really no hope for me, and should I just swig the proverbial hemlock (more likely heroin), or would that just be the last in a long line of bad decisions that made up the nightmare of my life? What am I to do when I can’t endure, but I fear missing the possibility of being wrong and someday finding happiness? I feel like a coward trapped between a foolish and hopeless dream and the terrifying reality that I will never know love or happiness, no matter how much I choose to resist and deny that fate.
Is it really just because I’m ugly and disturbingly young and frail looking that no woman can bear to look at me, or has my ugliness manifested in character and action, as my loneliness and sadness have deepened and twisted my soul dry. I suppose I know that to be true if I’m honest, as I sit here and feel nothing but anger, envy and pain at the sounds of my [now alien and distant] friend Louis laughing and joking in the next room, enjoying the one thing that makes life worth living and the one thing I have never and will never know… what it is to feel your desire reciprocated by another, and to feel that you will share with them every challenge and moment of life, proud and pleased with the partner standing beside you.
It’s not his fault, I’ve felt like this for 20 years whether I’m on my own, or with beautiful and happy people. I’m such a horrible person to be made so unhappy and resentful because of his happiness. It feels so hard now though because we’re so isolated, living in the middle of nowhere with no people, towns or cities nearby.
With every giggle and lip-smack I hear I feel my heart sink further into my gut and tears well up in my eyes, never released, but a permanent glaze of misery held to contrast their joy, like the ying to their yang, the price paid by the balance of nature’s scales. I know that I cannot go on feeling like this, nor can I talk to either of them about it, but I also can’t reprimand him, or ask him to stop enjoying his life. I can’t blame him for not wanting to include me and leaving me on my own. I’m a miserable, sad and lonely boy, why would he want me to taint the precious days he has with his love? He dislikes me now anyway, I’m sure of it. I’m sure he feels trapped, resentful of my privilege and beholden to my whims. No matter how much I’ve tried to reassure him or show generosity, I don’t think I’ve ever succeeded. If only I could swap my assets for his, I would in a heartbeat. He’s an orphan with nothing but good looks, yet for those I would trade every bit of education, charisma, wealth and even family.
So now the two of us are trapped in the middle of nowhere. Living the dream, every advantage, a beautiful life all-in-all. Yet for me it is hell... a misery of solitude that only one person can wake me from, a loving woman who I know will never come. And so I wait, distracting myself with a large daily dose of weed to numb my agony and gambling to distract my mind. Gambling, drugs, animals, cooking and gardening are all I have until I summon up the courage to live without love, or to die from its absence.
I do admit that I feel some animosity towards Louis for not really caring and for not trying, for leaving me in pain and knowing how I feel about myself, yet never considering what it must be like for me to be trapped in my room for two days in every week, listening to the sounds of two beautiful people laughing and loving, giving their lives meaning, while I sit alone and dwell on all the many things that are wrong with me, and that make me so worthless. I have done a lot, given a lot and changed a lot for him; if it were me I’d like to think I would be more thoughtful and considerate, but then I’m not known for those qualities, so maybe I’m just kidding myself. Besides, I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t really like the person any more, and I can’t blame him for feeling like that about me now he’s known me for a few years, everyone does eventually.
I cannot forget or ignore that I will never have a family, or loved ones, no partner to share the burden, no memories even of loves lost or dreams realised to sustain me through life’s ordeal. Instead all I can ever think about is that I will die as the boy who was bullied at school, rejected by the opposite sex, and then driven mad and torn apart by isolation, loneliness, self-pity and self-loathing.
Is it any wonder that a boy who feels like this would be in pain sitting in his room on his own, a martyr to his loneliness? Is it any wonder that he would want it to stop? Am I really so crazy for thinking about killing myself? How can it all be in my head when life has shown me the same story every time I’ve asked the right question? I wish I could just ask both of them to leave, to never see me again, so I can expire here on my own, sooner rather than later. The pain is much less severe when I don’t have this reminder shoved under my nose. What can I do? I can’t go back on my word and ask Louis to leave after giving up our jobs in London to live this green and sustainable life. I also don’t really want him to leave and me to live in a country where I know no one and have no friends or family. I can’t expect things to change, or for me to feel differently though, so something has to give. I know that more and more he will start to plan his life with Rhiannon and his escape from here, so why delay it? Perhaps I should just sell it all and give him a small share to start his new life? It would be liberating to spend a year or two travelling and finding worthy and worthwhile people who are disadvantaged to give the rest to. Once gone I could face my end like a man fortunate enough to know the time of his own death and with opportunity to do good first, then die assured that life wasn’t completely meaningless and the impact, in the end, was positive.
I think late thirties would be a long life when you consider how exhausting it is and how slowly time goes when you endure so much pain for all 365 days of every one of those last 20 years at least. I’m 34 now, so I think I’ll give myself 18 months to decide if it’s the right thing to do and then make a real decision that I’ll stick to.
I don’t think I really want to die… in fact I know I don’t, I just want to be happy and not to suffer. I guess I just think about suicide so much because deep down I feel like I want someone to help me in a serious and concerted way, but I don’t feel like anyone would bother doing that unless they realised that my pain was so intolerable that I was going to kill myself. Then out of guilt alone they would have to try really hard to help me, to avoid having my death weigh on their conscience. How pathetic eh? So unlovable that I feel I have to find ways to make people pretend to care and to coax help from people who’d sooner get on with their own lives and leave me to my nightmare. In the end though I know I couldn’t cope with the shame of a failed suicide attempt, so it’s best not to try because I’ll probably end up doing it right if I get that far and I still fear the finality of that decision enough to stop myself for now.
I just wonder what it’s like to feel the tender touch of a woman who loves and cares for you… fingers through hair, gentle kisses on stomachs and long and tight embraces. I wonder what it feels like to have hands grasping desperate with desire at your flesh. I don’t want to die yet… I want to know that stuff from experience and have a reason to live and something that makes it worthwhile. But what's the point in carrying on when you know it is a physically impossibility for any woman to find you attractive, and the best you can hope for is another ugly person who's willing to settle for you.
I wonder how other really ugly people cope with the stupid, arrogant, dismissive remarks like ‘your time will come’ and ‘everyone finds their love eventually’, ‘no one is too ugly for love’ – fek you! I am too ugly to be loved by any one special enough for me to love them back! The last 20 years have proved everyone wrong who told me in my teens and twenties that true love was around the corner. It isn’t! Of course, the comment about being too ugly for someone I could love reveals another unpleasant thing about me; I hate myself because I’m shallow and do think looks are important up to a point. I’m not saying I need a model or anything, but I would not be happy waking up every day next to a woman I didn’t find physically attractive. You can be ugly and a beautiful person, but if you’re ugly then people only want to be your friend and no one will ever fancy you, even if they settle for you. I think everyone feels like that, don’t they? No woman has ever imagined their wedding day with a pathetic little twerp like me in the photo, nor would or should any amazing and incredible woman settle for such a person. That does leave me in a tricky situation though because life isn’t a fairy-tale and I’m the one that has to endure daily agnoy. My great aunt lived to over 100 without ever having a relationship or falling in love… many humans and animals from every species are just genetic dead ends, so my misery and suffering are nothing unique or special I suppose… just another miserable being cursed with undesirability and rejected by his species, a freak and too far from normal be considered by any mate.
Beauty is skin deep, but people only see with their eyes and feel with their hands, so the outside is important. Women see men they find attractive and then they judge their characters, they do not see the men they do not find attractive – as they so often say ‘not in that way’. No woman has ever looked at me in that way no matter how nice or kind or sweet I’ve been. If they find I’m really nice they want to be my friend, but they never fancy me, nor could I blame them for that, they would have to be deranged to find me attractive.
Self-pity is so wet isn't it... this is why I can't talk to any friend or family member about this stuff (apart from the fact they are hundreds of miles away and don't really care)... I read back over it and just think 'god you sound like a whinging little prik'
Thought I might search around some forums to see if anyone has any words of good advice... useful stuff rather than patronising lies like 'it will all be ok in the end' or 'you're not ugly, everyone is beautiful, just have confidence' /sigh and ugh - it doesn't take a genius to see that statements like that don't hold up to any critical probing ;-(
Apologies for how long, pretentiously worded, cringe-makingly self-pitying and dull this is... you probably only need to pick a paragraph to get the gist - I never wrote it with the intention of sharing it, but it saves me re-living it all by explaining everything again...
Why do I have to hate myself so much that I feel this constant pain in my gut and throat whenever I’m left alone with my thoughts? Why do I have to cover it up because I’m so ashamed to be so miserable? Why am I now so alone that the only recourse I have for cathartic relief is a silent soliloquy to myself? Is there really no hope for me, and should I just swig the proverbial hemlock (more likely heroin), or would that just be the last in a long line of bad decisions that made up the nightmare of my life? What am I to do when I can’t endure, but I fear missing the possibility of being wrong and someday finding happiness? I feel like a coward trapped between a foolish and hopeless dream and the terrifying reality that I will never know love or happiness, no matter how much I choose to resist and deny that fate.
Is it really just because I’m ugly and disturbingly young and frail looking that no woman can bear to look at me, or has my ugliness manifested in character and action, as my loneliness and sadness have deepened and twisted my soul dry. I suppose I know that to be true if I’m honest, as I sit here and feel nothing but anger, envy and pain at the sounds of my [now alien and distant] friend Louis laughing and joking in the next room, enjoying the one thing that makes life worth living and the one thing I have never and will never know… what it is to feel your desire reciprocated by another, and to feel that you will share with them every challenge and moment of life, proud and pleased with the partner standing beside you.
It’s not his fault, I’ve felt like this for 20 years whether I’m on my own, or with beautiful and happy people. I’m such a horrible person to be made so unhappy and resentful because of his happiness. It feels so hard now though because we’re so isolated, living in the middle of nowhere with no people, towns or cities nearby.
With every giggle and lip-smack I hear I feel my heart sink further into my gut and tears well up in my eyes, never released, but a permanent glaze of misery held to contrast their joy, like the ying to their yang, the price paid by the balance of nature’s scales. I know that I cannot go on feeling like this, nor can I talk to either of them about it, but I also can’t reprimand him, or ask him to stop enjoying his life. I can’t blame him for not wanting to include me and leaving me on my own. I’m a miserable, sad and lonely boy, why would he want me to taint the precious days he has with his love? He dislikes me now anyway, I’m sure of it. I’m sure he feels trapped, resentful of my privilege and beholden to my whims. No matter how much I’ve tried to reassure him or show generosity, I don’t think I’ve ever succeeded. If only I could swap my assets for his, I would in a heartbeat. He’s an orphan with nothing but good looks, yet for those I would trade every bit of education, charisma, wealth and even family.
So now the two of us are trapped in the middle of nowhere. Living the dream, every advantage, a beautiful life all-in-all. Yet for me it is hell... a misery of solitude that only one person can wake me from, a loving woman who I know will never come. And so I wait, distracting myself with a large daily dose of weed to numb my agony and gambling to distract my mind. Gambling, drugs, animals, cooking and gardening are all I have until I summon up the courage to live without love, or to die from its absence.
I do admit that I feel some animosity towards Louis for not really caring and for not trying, for leaving me in pain and knowing how I feel about myself, yet never considering what it must be like for me to be trapped in my room for two days in every week, listening to the sounds of two beautiful people laughing and loving, giving their lives meaning, while I sit alone and dwell on all the many things that are wrong with me, and that make me so worthless. I have done a lot, given a lot and changed a lot for him; if it were me I’d like to think I would be more thoughtful and considerate, but then I’m not known for those qualities, so maybe I’m just kidding myself. Besides, I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t really like the person any more, and I can’t blame him for feeling like that about me now he’s known me for a few years, everyone does eventually.
I cannot forget or ignore that I will never have a family, or loved ones, no partner to share the burden, no memories even of loves lost or dreams realised to sustain me through life’s ordeal. Instead all I can ever think about is that I will die as the boy who was bullied at school, rejected by the opposite sex, and then driven mad and torn apart by isolation, loneliness, self-pity and self-loathing.
Is it any wonder that a boy who feels like this would be in pain sitting in his room on his own, a martyr to his loneliness? Is it any wonder that he would want it to stop? Am I really so crazy for thinking about killing myself? How can it all be in my head when life has shown me the same story every time I’ve asked the right question? I wish I could just ask both of them to leave, to never see me again, so I can expire here on my own, sooner rather than later. The pain is much less severe when I don’t have this reminder shoved under my nose. What can I do? I can’t go back on my word and ask Louis to leave after giving up our jobs in London to live this green and sustainable life. I also don’t really want him to leave and me to live in a country where I know no one and have no friends or family. I can’t expect things to change, or for me to feel differently though, so something has to give. I know that more and more he will start to plan his life with Rhiannon and his escape from here, so why delay it? Perhaps I should just sell it all and give him a small share to start his new life? It would be liberating to spend a year or two travelling and finding worthy and worthwhile people who are disadvantaged to give the rest to. Once gone I could face my end like a man fortunate enough to know the time of his own death and with opportunity to do good first, then die assured that life wasn’t completely meaningless and the impact, in the end, was positive.
I think late thirties would be a long life when you consider how exhausting it is and how slowly time goes when you endure so much pain for all 365 days of every one of those last 20 years at least. I’m 34 now, so I think I’ll give myself 18 months to decide if it’s the right thing to do and then make a real decision that I’ll stick to.
I don’t think I really want to die… in fact I know I don’t, I just want to be happy and not to suffer. I guess I just think about suicide so much because deep down I feel like I want someone to help me in a serious and concerted way, but I don’t feel like anyone would bother doing that unless they realised that my pain was so intolerable that I was going to kill myself. Then out of guilt alone they would have to try really hard to help me, to avoid having my death weigh on their conscience. How pathetic eh? So unlovable that I feel I have to find ways to make people pretend to care and to coax help from people who’d sooner get on with their own lives and leave me to my nightmare. In the end though I know I couldn’t cope with the shame of a failed suicide attempt, so it’s best not to try because I’ll probably end up doing it right if I get that far and I still fear the finality of that decision enough to stop myself for now.
I just wonder what it’s like to feel the tender touch of a woman who loves and cares for you… fingers through hair, gentle kisses on stomachs and long and tight embraces. I wonder what it feels like to have hands grasping desperate with desire at your flesh. I don’t want to die yet… I want to know that stuff from experience and have a reason to live and something that makes it worthwhile. But what's the point in carrying on when you know it is a physically impossibility for any woman to find you attractive, and the best you can hope for is another ugly person who's willing to settle for you.
I wonder how other really ugly people cope with the stupid, arrogant, dismissive remarks like ‘your time will come’ and ‘everyone finds their love eventually’, ‘no one is too ugly for love’ – fek you! I am too ugly to be loved by any one special enough for me to love them back! The last 20 years have proved everyone wrong who told me in my teens and twenties that true love was around the corner. It isn’t! Of course, the comment about being too ugly for someone I could love reveals another unpleasant thing about me; I hate myself because I’m shallow and do think looks are important up to a point. I’m not saying I need a model or anything, but I would not be happy waking up every day next to a woman I didn’t find physically attractive. You can be ugly and a beautiful person, but if you’re ugly then people only want to be your friend and no one will ever fancy you, even if they settle for you. I think everyone feels like that, don’t they? No woman has ever imagined their wedding day with a pathetic little twerp like me in the photo, nor would or should any amazing and incredible woman settle for such a person. That does leave me in a tricky situation though because life isn’t a fairy-tale and I’m the one that has to endure daily agnoy. My great aunt lived to over 100 without ever having a relationship or falling in love… many humans and animals from every species are just genetic dead ends, so my misery and suffering are nothing unique or special I suppose… just another miserable being cursed with undesirability and rejected by his species, a freak and too far from normal be considered by any mate.
Beauty is skin deep, but people only see with their eyes and feel with their hands, so the outside is important. Women see men they find attractive and then they judge their characters, they do not see the men they do not find attractive – as they so often say ‘not in that way’. No woman has ever looked at me in that way no matter how nice or kind or sweet I’ve been. If they find I’m really nice they want to be my friend, but they never fancy me, nor could I blame them for that, they would have to be deranged to find me attractive.
Self-pity is so wet isn't it... this is why I can't talk to any friend or family member about this stuff (apart from the fact they are hundreds of miles away and don't really care)... I read back over it and just think 'god you sound like a whinging little prik'