s00ngone
All you can feel is the weather
- Mar 21, 2025
- 40
I wake up out of a long dream, long enough to nearly convince me I might already be dead. Dread... unearned dread. Baseless despair. I do not know suffering, yet I suffer anyway.
What a predicament I find myself in. I was just thinking about my persistent desire to ctb and the nebula of reasons for why. There's something particularly surreal about wanting to die not from acute suffering, not from unbearable physical pain from a health condition, not from abusive living circumstances, not from lack, but from life being life.
At some point in the recent past, I communicated to my therapist how raw everything felt. Even benign, passive, completely neutral things felt like needles digging under my skin. I described it as being flayed alive with all the nerve endings left exposed, unable to distinguish between stimuli. It all just stung.
This subsided for awhile... under the influence of severe detachment from reality for several months.
I have an earlier post up detailing that catastrophe. Parallel to that was a strange, bittersweet time with a guy I met, had a brief relationship with, and have since ghosted in the fallout of everything I thought was real.
We met on Grindr, of all places, and I invited him to meet at cemetery by me, where I've spent many, many hours of my life - I wrapped up my BPD best friend's self-harm scars there by our "favorite" gravestone, which read "mother." Poignant. I both met and "broke up with" the guy before this one, who I ended up obsessing over for 2 years. When I got fired/quit my first job and didn't have the guts to tell my parents, I pretended to be at work for a month or more, spending hours at this cemetery. Lots of history.
He met me there, and he was gorgeous, and smart, and funny, and sympathetic to my self-described web of self-discoveries amounting to "hi, I'm [insert psychotic delusion here]!" For all that would happen, he was always incredibly open-minded. Hell, I was telling him about the clown I apparently hallucinated (which is a complicated story), among other things, and he was eager to hear more about it. Much more intimate than your average Grindr hookup. It felt like we really got each other, or at the very least that there was passion there. We hit it off after this, and we end up missing each other enough that we see each other again pretty soon after at a park. Again, great time, he brings food and we talk, laugh, generally get along well. When it's time to head home, he had locked his keys inside his car, so he had to call someone out to get it unlocked. I happily let him wait in my truck even though I was very sleepy. (Turned out he could just call to get it remotely unlocked, but I didn't mind the excuse to spend more time with him.)
We then very nearly got trapped in the park with the gates closed, but an officer came out and opened them for us. Successful date. At this stage, I probably seemed like a pretty solid potential partner: witty, comforting to be around, easy to talk to, good listener. These qualities become the veneer of normalcy that hides the rest of my fucking craziness of the next few months.
We go out several more times in November, the most special of which was my birthday on the 27th. He takes me out for Japanese food and a visit to Hobby Lobby for his first time. It all sounds so picturesque in retrospect: we're wandering the candle aisle smelling all the different scents, we're picking out a puzzle to do together, generally having good chemistry and enjoying each other's company. Little does he know that throughout this period, I'm up to my ears in spiritual delusions, believing that I'd be able to just manifest a job (after unceremoniously putting in my two weeks at the job I had at the time with no plan) or magic up an entire future with him, no planning necessary, in Vancouver. I was very, very out of touch but believed if I just "believed really hard" that things would just kind of work themselves out.
Thinking about this time with him now gives me unbearable whiplash. We were a totally casual couple for the time that we spent together - going out to eat, to hike, on nature trails, spending time at my house while my parents were away chilling without a care in the world, watching Smiling Friends and rolling joints to our hearts' content. There was a real sense of bliss at being alone together with someone who seemed to see me so fully, to want what I was, to enjoy my presence and see a future in my company. It helped that he was a stunning guy with a really hot body from years of disciplined exercise and great sexual chemistry (which we spent a lot of time doing).
Frankly, that's what I conceptualize our time together as: a lot of chilling watching stuff we enjoyed, amazing sex and some great conversations - with a backdrop of sheer lunacy behind the scenes. Little did he know that the "art group" I alluded to, the "lab", was a cultish spiritual grifting platform that was feeding my delusions of grandeur and convincing me that I had powers over the material world. When I eventually did start questioning what the fuck was going on for the first time (as described earlier in my profile), I shared with him how I'd been believing nonsense like "I'm dead and this is the afterlife" and "the SCP Foundation is real" - though that was just the tip of the iceberg. I was deep in that shit, to the point where I believed at some point that the journal he gave me for Christmas, which I'd begun to write and draw in, was some kind of actual grimoire affecting the course of reality.
I look back on the few weeks my parents and sister were away during Christmas especially as being when things peaked, and after which the real nightmare began: he spent days at a time over for blissed-out sleepovers and days of cuddling, eating and laughing together. I stayed behind while my family was in Mexico believing that I'd found someone I could really be comfortable around, that I could let my guard down with - which I couldn't say about my family, necessarily, throughout my life. But this ended up being part of the delusion.
It all came crumbling down when my parents got back and I didn't have a job lined up like I expressed I would. In fact, I lied outright about not having a job, convincing them for awhile that I was doing a remote medical scribe thing... for no good reason. It was only when the person who was feeding me the most cultish ideas told me to come clean about the lie that I brought it up to my parents, who had been preparing to ask for the $600 in rent that we'd established I'd be paying some time before.
Clearly, I was not in the right mind to be responsible. And I'll say it, full stop: I've never been. I never prepared to be. Part of the nature of the delusion was that I wouldn't ever have to do shit like everybody else does, and must, to survive. Must sound rich to most people on here. I'm fully aware of that, and I'm ashamed. But it's how it was. Is.
Shayan was actually the one to help me out in the nick of time for January's rent, and I went on to promise that I'd be willing to take on as much work as I needed to fund our future... except, that ended up being false, too, in the end, when the totality of my own detachment from reality came crashing over my stupid fucking head and I realized, no, this daydream I've been living in is not in fact how real life works, and to have ever imagined myself as someone hardworking or trustworthy enough to invest a future in was a mistake.
It was one pivotal moment I captured in a note on my phone that absolutely broke my brain.
I wrote this after Shayan, 26, a microbiology major working in a plasma lab, had bought me an ice cream at Grand Central Market in LA. The rest is history. Our relationship started to slowly fizzle out from there, but I'm too weary of writing this to keep going, so I'll add more later. Suffice to say that I'm in a weird fucking place. Contemplating... contemplating. Knowing there's no way to make this any easier for me or anybody.
What a predicament I find myself in. I was just thinking about my persistent desire to ctb and the nebula of reasons for why. There's something particularly surreal about wanting to die not from acute suffering, not from unbearable physical pain from a health condition, not from abusive living circumstances, not from lack, but from life being life.
At some point in the recent past, I communicated to my therapist how raw everything felt. Even benign, passive, completely neutral things felt like needles digging under my skin. I described it as being flayed alive with all the nerve endings left exposed, unable to distinguish between stimuli. It all just stung.
This subsided for awhile... under the influence of severe detachment from reality for several months.
I have an earlier post up detailing that catastrophe. Parallel to that was a strange, bittersweet time with a guy I met, had a brief relationship with, and have since ghosted in the fallout of everything I thought was real.We met on Grindr, of all places, and I invited him to meet at cemetery by me, where I've spent many, many hours of my life - I wrapped up my BPD best friend's self-harm scars there by our "favorite" gravestone, which read "mother." Poignant. I both met and "broke up with" the guy before this one, who I ended up obsessing over for 2 years. When I got fired/quit my first job and didn't have the guts to tell my parents, I pretended to be at work for a month or more, spending hours at this cemetery. Lots of history.
He met me there, and he was gorgeous, and smart, and funny, and sympathetic to my self-described web of self-discoveries amounting to "hi, I'm [insert psychotic delusion here]!" For all that would happen, he was always incredibly open-minded. Hell, I was telling him about the clown I apparently hallucinated (which is a complicated story), among other things, and he was eager to hear more about it. Much more intimate than your average Grindr hookup. It felt like we really got each other, or at the very least that there was passion there. We hit it off after this, and we end up missing each other enough that we see each other again pretty soon after at a park. Again, great time, he brings food and we talk, laugh, generally get along well. When it's time to head home, he had locked his keys inside his car, so he had to call someone out to get it unlocked. I happily let him wait in my truck even though I was very sleepy. (Turned out he could just call to get it remotely unlocked, but I didn't mind the excuse to spend more time with him.)
We then very nearly got trapped in the park with the gates closed, but an officer came out and opened them for us. Successful date. At this stage, I probably seemed like a pretty solid potential partner: witty, comforting to be around, easy to talk to, good listener. These qualities become the veneer of normalcy that hides the rest of my fucking craziness of the next few months.
We go out several more times in November, the most special of which was my birthday on the 27th. He takes me out for Japanese food and a visit to Hobby Lobby for his first time. It all sounds so picturesque in retrospect: we're wandering the candle aisle smelling all the different scents, we're picking out a puzzle to do together, generally having good chemistry and enjoying each other's company. Little does he know that throughout this period, I'm up to my ears in spiritual delusions, believing that I'd be able to just manifest a job (after unceremoniously putting in my two weeks at the job I had at the time with no plan) or magic up an entire future with him, no planning necessary, in Vancouver. I was very, very out of touch but believed if I just "believed really hard" that things would just kind of work themselves out.
Thinking about this time with him now gives me unbearable whiplash. We were a totally casual couple for the time that we spent together - going out to eat, to hike, on nature trails, spending time at my house while my parents were away chilling without a care in the world, watching Smiling Friends and rolling joints to our hearts' content. There was a real sense of bliss at being alone together with someone who seemed to see me so fully, to want what I was, to enjoy my presence and see a future in my company. It helped that he was a stunning guy with a really hot body from years of disciplined exercise and great sexual chemistry (which we spent a lot of time doing).
Frankly, that's what I conceptualize our time together as: a lot of chilling watching stuff we enjoyed, amazing sex and some great conversations - with a backdrop of sheer lunacy behind the scenes. Little did he know that the "art group" I alluded to, the "lab", was a cultish spiritual grifting platform that was feeding my delusions of grandeur and convincing me that I had powers over the material world. When I eventually did start questioning what the fuck was going on for the first time (as described earlier in my profile), I shared with him how I'd been believing nonsense like "I'm dead and this is the afterlife" and "the SCP Foundation is real" - though that was just the tip of the iceberg. I was deep in that shit, to the point where I believed at some point that the journal he gave me for Christmas, which I'd begun to write and draw in, was some kind of actual grimoire affecting the course of reality.
I look back on the few weeks my parents and sister were away during Christmas especially as being when things peaked, and after which the real nightmare began: he spent days at a time over for blissed-out sleepovers and days of cuddling, eating and laughing together. I stayed behind while my family was in Mexico believing that I'd found someone I could really be comfortable around, that I could let my guard down with - which I couldn't say about my family, necessarily, throughout my life. But this ended up being part of the delusion.
It all came crumbling down when my parents got back and I didn't have a job lined up like I expressed I would. In fact, I lied outright about not having a job, convincing them for awhile that I was doing a remote medical scribe thing... for no good reason. It was only when the person who was feeding me the most cultish ideas told me to come clean about the lie that I brought it up to my parents, who had been preparing to ask for the $600 in rent that we'd established I'd be paying some time before.
Clearly, I was not in the right mind to be responsible. And I'll say it, full stop: I've never been. I never prepared to be. Part of the nature of the delusion was that I wouldn't ever have to do shit like everybody else does, and must, to survive. Must sound rich to most people on here. I'm fully aware of that, and I'm ashamed. But it's how it was. Is.
Shayan was actually the one to help me out in the nick of time for January's rent, and I went on to promise that I'd be willing to take on as much work as I needed to fund our future... except, that ended up being false, too, in the end, when the totality of my own detachment from reality came crashing over my stupid fucking head and I realized, no, this daydream I've been living in is not in fact how real life works, and to have ever imagined myself as someone hardworking or trustworthy enough to invest a future in was a mistake.
It was one pivotal moment I captured in a note on my phone that absolutely broke my brain.
I wrote this after Shayan, 26, a microbiology major working in a plasma lab, had bought me an ice cream at Grand Central Market in LA. The rest is history. Our relationship started to slowly fizzle out from there, but I'm too weary of writing this to keep going, so I'll add more later. Suffice to say that I'm in a weird fucking place. Contemplating... contemplating. Knowing there's no way to make this any easier for me or anybody.
