Dead dreams

I just got this incredibly strong urge to just delete everything I've written. Like, gah, I don't know. Can't shake the feeling that it's just crap and I suck and should just stop pretending that I'm a writer. My urges of destruction and emotional suicide are killing me. My feelings of worthlessness and that there's no point in anything I do are overwhelming and also killing me.

My parents killed my dreams long ago and so did the rest of the world. Saying that I'm not good enough at anything that I like doing, that the little spark of hope I have is useless, pointless and not worth it. I'm not good at painting, not good at drawing, not good at sewing, not good at writing and it's killing me because that is what I literally live for. Nothing hurts more than that. Nothing. Do you understand that? I have nothing else and it just hurts so damn much to know that it's all just useless crap. And that's why I've stopped doing it for long periods in my life.

When I've for months or even years not produced anything artistic cause what's the fucking point? It's useless, it's so damn useless everything I do, my last bit of pride for nothing. I don't know anything else, I have no merits, no education, no other interests or hobbies, no other ambitions. And I suck at it. Trying to tell myself that I'm just doing it for myself and for my own gain, but it's not true. How can I ever become anything at all except from the failure and loser I am right now and have always been, if I can't let myself believe that my work is appreciated?

Is that selfish of me? To want others to like what I do? What I've worked so hard on, what I've spent more time and energy on than I have ever before been able to have the ability to? That I've gone out of my way to create just because it's the only real thing that I can do? Is that wrong, is that selfish, is that too greedy of me? I don't know, but that is what I truly think, that is what I truly believe that others think.

That I demand too much, that I should just keep it as hobbies and interests and not something to eventually be able to live on. Don't you know? I'm incapable of living a normal life with a normal job. INCAPABLE. Do you even care why, do you even believe in it? It's because I flip out, I break apart and the world splits in pieces whenever I try. It's because it worsens my already half intolerable headache sevenfold, increases my hallucinations, I dissociate, go into psychosis, get social anxiety, any other kinds of anxiety and I'm not fucking exaggerating. I don't function in society. I don't and I never have.

Asperger might not be the worst handicap one could have, but I was born into a world that did not tolerate me. Already as a young child I had anxiety, OCD and even possibly dissociated. From there on it got worse. Now I'm finally better after 24 years in a darkness I could not describe and I'm 25 years old. Finally I'm able to be artistic and write like never before, finally I seem to have the mental capacity for it and this might not be a good day/night for me, I'm barely holding up, but I can't help but feeling that what I write is just useless crap and I should just stop pretending that I'm a writer.

I have three dreams. That's more than I've ever had and one of them is to become physically male which I can just almost say has come true. The second is the newest and it is to end up in a relationship with K. The third one is the oldest and has kept me alive (not always though, considering my rap sheet of suicide attempts) and that is to be able to live on my artistic "talents". I'm seriously questioning the "talents" part today. Seriously.

That dream has been crushed, stomped on, spat at, laughed at and even killed but somehow I've managed to resurrect it again. Why am I sober? I ask myself as I try to figure it out. Try to let go and just continue writing and forget everything else that's distracting and what not. My damn sister is also ruining my dreams by being a lot better than me. I just wish, dream of the fantasy day that I have written everything, printed it out on 200 or more pages and slam it on the table in front of my family and demand them to read it and that they would love it and cheer at me for my incredible work.

But it's not gonna happen cause they wouldn't bother to read it. They would just say they'll read it later and then it would lie there and collect dust until they hand it over to me again. Get rid of that crap, will you, John? Or they'd read it and complain about how I can't write about this or that cause I have no experience of it and it's crap, stop writing, you suck at it and no publisher would ever accept that embarrassing thing.

Sadly, tonight I just feel like crying but I can't cry so it just bottles up and it's hard to swallow and to breathe, but I cannot weep, however much I need to. I kill my dream, I kill it over and over again but it just won't fucking die.