Depression and Sexuality
Sometimes I just want to die. A lot of times really.
No. Thatís not right. Itís not that I want to die. I'm not attracted to the process of dying at all. Itís just that I want to be dead, want it to be over. I want to rest. And I want to rest with my record standing as it is.
I donít want to loose this fight. I donít want to give in to my drives. I want to stop thinking about women. I donít want to give in - to do what comes natural. I want to be able to go to my grave with dignity.
I hate it. I hate who I am. I hate the fact that I canít stop my mind constantly wandering - that girl, that beautiful girl - in the magazine, on the billboard, walking down the street, in church in the pew in front of me, talking to me, smiling at me - that smile, my God, that smile, and the way she flicked her hair, I almost fell over, and then she bent over in front of me to pick something up and gave me an eyeful of cleavage, and I know Iím not supposed to look and I tried not to look (well, I sorta tried, half-tried, I'm sure I did) but now itís three hours later and Iím still thinking about them, I mean 'it', I mean ... I don't know what I mean but I can't get her out of my head!
I hate the way my brain works. I hate the fact that Im such an animal, and I hate the fact that I cant talk about it and I hate the fact that nobody understands and that most people arent even remotely aware! Theres a war going on inside of me. So much of the time I want to scream but I keep silent, like the oceans surface, all blood and violence underneath.
What was that? No, Iím fine. Iím just feeling a little sore, a little tired, a little distracted, got something on my mind, donít worry about it, yeah .. Iíll be fine, just let it go, please let it go, please let it go.
I want it to end. I want to end the struggle, finish the game while Iím still ahead. I canít talk about it, donít want to think about it. When my girlfriend picks up on it, itís all about her, how I donít love her, donít care about her feelings, donít find her attractive. Of course she sees it that way. Thatís never going to change. Sheís never going to understand.
I need to tell somebody, anybody. I wish I could tell everybody. Those that love me enough to help me get through this, they donít understand, totally donít understand. Those that do understand, they canít help me because they don't see it as a problem. And theyíre not here in church with me anyway. Theyíre up at the pub or down at the brothel or somewhere where I canít be, and if they are in church, theyíre full-on fighting to keep it under wraps just like I am and they dare not talk about it either.
I canít talk about it, must stop thinking about it. I can't keep going like this. I'll get my mind on to something else, anything else: check that chart, answer that email, click that link ... oh my God, that girl in the picture, that smile! ... I so want to be dead.
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