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Overtones of Hell How I escape the pain

Please note:

the impression isn't to give the reader a sense that the writer is making excuses for his behavior. This is a bad habit, and one the writer deeply regrets.

I'm buried now.

Not under soil, or any such natural substance, but under the encumbering weight of the burden life has become. If i could describe what has entombed me, it is something related to hopelessness that souls such as myself succumb to.

It all started when I lost 3 people dear to me in a short span. Remember the old adage, "tragedies happen in threes?"

Well, it happened. Nothing can change it, nothing can fill the emptiness...

Well, I found something can, albeit in a fleeting moment. And that's where it all went wrong.

I was scared of needles once, was afraid to even go to the dentist. Flu shots were out of the question.

When you go through such losses, people only care superficially.

"Oh i'm so sorry for your loss."

"I know how you feel."

"I'm here for you."

But, deep down you know they don't mean it. They can't relate, and are trying to save face for their own sense of fabricated morality. They are liars, when you really digest the gravity of this conundrum.

You are probably beginning to think this story is becoming melancholy, that the writer hasn't broken the viscuous cycle of being chronically crestfallen.

The writer would ask that you please empathize, as the library has limited me to 30 minutes a day usage and I took the time to convey this instead of any number of things one can do with internet access.

I can't blame them. In the beginning, I would often spend many hours here with nowhere else to go.

Dear reader forgives me for cutting this diatribe early. Writing is suddenly becoming difficult. Anxiousness is kicking in. I am beginning to sweat, tremble and experience anxiety.

The memories, the painful memories

I will attempt to escape notice and use the library restroom, almost hoping when I hit the plunger this time the room of rest has a permanent effect on my mind

... until next time.

**Please note:** the impression isn't to give the reader a sense that the writer is making excuses for his behavior. This is a bad habit, and one the writer deeply regrets. --- I'm buried now. Not under soil, or any such natural substance, but under the encumbering weight of the burden life has become. If i could describe what has entombed me, it is something related to hopelessness that souls such as myself succumb to. It all started when I lost 3 people dear to me in a short span. Remember the old adage, "tragedies happen in threes?" Well, it happened. Nothing can change it, nothing can fill the emptiness... Well, I found something can, albeit in a fleeting moment. And that's where it all went wrong. --- *I was scared of needles once, was afraid to even go to the dentist. Flu shots were out of the question.* --- When you go through such losses, people only care superficially. "Oh i'm so sorry for your loss." "I know how you feel." "I'm here for you." But, deep down you know they don't mean it. They can't relate, and are trying to save face for their own sense of fabricated morality. They are liars, when you really digest the gravity of this conundrum. You are probably beginning to think this story is becoming melancholy, that the writer hasn't broken the viscuous cycle of being chronically crestfallen. The writer would ask that you please empathize, as the library has limited me to 30 minutes a day usage and I took the time to convey this instead of any number of things one can do with internet access. I can't blame them. In the beginning, I would often spend many hours here with nowhere else to go. Dear reader forgives me for cutting this diatribe early. Writing is suddenly becoming difficult. Anxiousness is kicking in. I am beginning to sweat, tremble and experience anxiety. *The memories, the painful memories* --- *I will attempt to escape notice and use the library restroom, almost hoping when I hit the plunger this time the room of rest has a permanent effect on my mind* --- ... until next time.

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I lived a very long lifetime in a place that left me with nothing but pen & pad. When I learned again to actually feel my emotions my pen felt strange in my hand even as my emotions seemed to lose a dimension for the absence.

A couple years back I was sharing space with my roommate. He was playing something on the x-station+, I was alternating between staring blankly at the wall & staring blankly at my laptop. He hadn't been having a very good year & said aloud, "I think I should kill myself". To which I replied, "Hmm." and we both let it drop.

He kept playing his game. I kept alternately staring at the wall & screen.

Some time later he said something along the lines of "If I had said that to anyone else they would have tried to engage me or tried to dissuade me. You waited to see where it would go. That's what I needed, thanks." (not a direct quote, just how it plays in my head right now as I'm remembering it).

Short story long. If you want to talk to someone who won't take it personal I check this account pretty regularly.