No one understands me…

I feel like I live in a world full of people, and I am the only one among them who has their eyes open. I try to explain to people how to open their eyes, and everyone thinks that “I” have the problem, but no one can see that everyone’s eyes are shut, including their own, and I am just standing here in my loneliness. These feelings of misunderstanding, no matter how often I try to explain things to people, makes me so depressed that I feel like I could vomit and suffocate on it. 

To Everyone Who Tries to Be My Friend…

Consistently, I am pressured to hang out with individuals whom I decline the presence of. It is not because I don’t care. I have, essentially, no friends of my own whom live close to me, whom I confide in regularly. More than anything, I very much so enjoy being alone. 

People say it’s healthy to have friendships and relationships with others; however, I think it’s wrong of then to tell me what my individualistic body needs to be happy. I speculate that if I didn’t feel forced into meaningless conversations every day at my job, I would probably be much less depressed. 

Speaking of depression, I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. We’ll see how that goes. 

I feel like I need a year of unpressured alone time to recover from all of the meaningless conversations I’ve felt forced into throughout my life. So go ahead, tell me to suck it up and deal with life without complaining, and to that I tell you to go mind your own business. I can do whatever I want. Jesus won’t send me to Hell if I decide I prefer to be alone than a lover of humanity.

I had a longish talk with my boyfriend last night. I have a tendency to abuse myself, neglect myself. It hurts him. He is distancing himself from me emotionally because he can’t help me. I don’t want help because I don’t care about myself. I have a great destiny and goal. In my eyes, I care to have nothing later in life. I have no goals to be in Heaven other than to worship God and be the poorest person there. No material items could ever entice me. I do not care to build up treasures. I don’t want them.

Regardless, I do not care for myself. I do not care for a long life for myself. I do not care for Heaven. Nothing entices me and keeps me going except the knowledge that I must give my destinies to the world that I have always felt called to do. In a way, I feel that I am a misfit robot amongst a sea of robots who is the only one who realized she is a miraculous machine set in motion and capable of decisions which are already divinely inspired and predicted.

I have no joy. I do not expect joy. I like to pet cats and dogs. Sometimes my boyfriend and I have fun, but lately it has been distressing amidst the wealth of my depression struggles and feelings of apathy towards everything. My drugs have stopped working. I can’t go on a higher dose. I have to find something else.

I feel that I understand so many things that it causes my depression. I cannot believe that God loves everyone when He lets the people who choose to not accept forgiveness go to Hell to suffer eternally. I don’t understand how a parent who loves can do that to children. In my own mind, this only leaves the resolution that God is more of a God who is divine and is just. Above all else, He is righteousness and will not let those who do not play by the rules make it to the Kingdom of Heaven.

It makes me sad that there are so many people who don’t get to go to Heaven. I can’t save them all. There is no point. I feel like everything is cruel, and it doesn’t matter because God doesn’t care that I feel like I want the people in Hell to go to Heaven. He sympathizes, but He is not going to change reality so that everyone gets to go to Heaven. No matter how many times I pray, not everyone will get to go to Heaven.

I don’t pray.

The INFJ Obsession With Tragedy

I lead with a strange philosophy.

I cannot tell you when my sadness started. I think it was always there.

I cannot remember a time from my childhood wherein I knew that I was happy and carefree. Looking back in family pictures, I never smiled. In life, I was the child who never made a sound. I didn’t communicate. I was very shy. My mom said I seemed to have “very little interest in things.” I was always caught up in my head, and I never had friends.

Being home schooled, I grew up isolated. There was a period in my life where it seemed that my extroverted nature blossomed, but as I have matured into an adult, I seem to have regressed back to that small and lonely child again. I think that my depression was always there, even when I didn’t know what it was.

I am diagnosed with Chronic Severe Depression, taking several medications a day. Often, I fail to feel desire for my own purpose in life. I cannot feel as though I wish to do anything for myself. I do a great many things, and I think I have a chance to make something of myself.

This is me btw: http://www.facebook.com/zeldatetrasheik

I’m a cosplayer, actress, musician, singer, composer, and model. I have a band. I was a lead actress in a film last summer, and I do all of this while going to school full time while also supporting myself. Type in ZeldaTetraSheik on google, and you will find me almost everywhere. (It’s kind of my name that I marketed for myself.)

But this post is not so much about what I do and what I’ve done. It’s about my purpose behind why I do what I do.

Throughout the extent of my depression, I seem to have embraced tragedy with almost illogical obsession.  Such tragedy that may be likened to a beautiful story of separated lovers (preferably by death) or a heart-wrenching melody bowed on the violin. I am obsessed with tragic stories.

In acknowledgement of my unhealthy obsession, it appears as though, amidst my deep and often misunderstood self, I have superimposed a tragedy upon myself, wherein I am the tragic protagonist of a story who must give her story in music to the world before she dies. This is her main duty in life. Nothing else really matters to her. She neglects herself and does not care for herself because she has no intent upon doing anything for herself. She has a goal she must attain so that her life seems worthwhile, despite her depression. She would never give up without giving to the world. That would be selfish of her.

But is it selfish of me to be this way?