I’m going to take a break from therapy. My frustration tolerance is presently low. The consequences of sharing past trauma are kicking my ass. I entered therapy in the first place because I don’t want my past to continue fucking with my present. I understand the concept of things getting worse before they get better. I didn’t enter it blindly. I also recognize that my ability to cope is limited, and am aware of what can happen when I allow it to be exceeded.
I realize coping skills are about 90% distraction, and 10% forced hormonal balance. They are not a cure, or even a bandaid. They are all about distance. The act of willing oneself to move from point A to point B in order to forestall reality just long enough to survive. So naturally, running is my best coping skill. It forces my body’s hormonal imbalance to begin correcting itself. It’s consistently effective, but still limited. The distraction coping skill is the act of willing oneself to focus on anything but reality just long enough to prevent your mind from forming obvious conclusions, and acting on them.
Coping is treading water to prevent drowning. It’s absolutely a skill, and requires lots of practice, a strong will, and trust. If you don’t believe it will allow you to survive, it won’t. If you expect it to be anything more than barely managing to survive, then you’ll be sorely disappointed, and probably really pissed off as well. It sucks on every fucking level. But it’s the only strategy that doesn’t lead directly to self destruction. It reminds me of Combat Medic training in the Army, where they teach you how to apply a candy wrapper on a sucking chest wound. It’ll probably keep the patient from dying immediately. The same with using a Skilcraft pen to perform an emergency tracheotomy, or cauterizing heavy bleeding using whatever you can find. Bare fucking minimum.
In the civilian world, you would barely manage to save someone’s life, and then suffer financial ruin when they survive and successfully sue you for your barbaric methodology. This is coping. And it fucking sucks. So you forcibly train yourself to accept it as the best and only option. But deep down, you resent it, and it leaks out as anger. I’m feeling that anger now. There’s nowhere to direct it. There’s no personhood that is solely responsible, whom I can vilify and rage against. It just is.
So my anger sits there and taunts me to act on it in some manner. To do something in order to feel release. But I know it’s a trap. I know that randomly lashing out at bystanders because I’m angry is actually like playing a sadistic game of tag. Eventually, it’ll come back around and tag me back. Usually when I’m having a pleasant day. Fuck that. Or I could adopt the delusion that turning my anger inward is depression defined. Fuck that twice. Depression isn’t the act of directing anger inward. Anger is just an ego leak. It’s irrelevant to depression. Depression isn’t action. It’s inaction. It’s hovering between participating in life, and telling life to fuck off.
The thing I hate the most about the Depression Monster, is that he’s such a fucking trickster. He can hide in your blind spot indefinitely. And when you don’t know he’s there, you accept the status quo as ‘normal’. You settle for a shitty life without conscious awareness. That’s fucked up. I keep an eye on that bastard. I have no afterlife expectations whatsoever. I believe when I die, that’s it. This life is mine, and if it sucks, it’s my fault. Nothing outside of my mind is capable of determining whether or not my life sucks. Unless I decide to allow it, that is. This is also fucked up.
When the world outside my head tells me that it’s possible for me to be an innocent victim of my circumstances, it’s something I want to believe. But it doesn’t pass the bullshit test, and that pisses me off. And on top of that, many people do buy into it. And I resent them, because I can’t lie to myself, and I don’t understand how others can do so. Ego leak. So I choose to be darkly amused by my anger. It’s audacious in nature. It’s me thinking I’m entitled to something, and then being upset when reality reminds me that I’m actually just dust that hasn’t been reabsorbed yet.