I don’t want to die alone.  There, I said it.

Finally.  And it only took several days of drafts for other things that eventually got scrapped to reach this point.

Yeah, yeah— I know most people would say they don’t want to die alone either.

…Should I say more?

It’s been over a year since I kicked off a larger presence, and… emotionally “cratered” over how I saw myself, and faced a near-black hole of aloneness.

But before I get to “the cratering,” I have to lay out a bit of background on my ‘disorder.’

Some have said that I have OCD, but I would point out the vacuum that exists.
It makes you closely examine and re-examine some of the things you’re involved with.  It’s like there’s no tomorrow, but worse—the reality of an always worse tomorrow.

What was built over time resembles something of an addiction.

Addiction: you detach from—and stop building on—what was ‘normal’; much of your being is now powerless to that something.

Reduced to fleeting moments, rapid thinking, binge eating, long hours on utter crap… The diagnosis was Asperger’s, but I didn’t buy it.  I’m still skeptical today, actually.  At the least, it’s not strong enough.  What I have is debilitating.

There are times that I can’t move.

I would sometimes remain in bed, under the weight of “I’ve done it too many times before, and I’m fooling myself if I think I’m gonna get anywhere this time.”

An environment of one-way streets, and a helluva lot more “no-way streets,” the effects of the American diet would rob me of my energy, as I took on… more discouragement and more blindness.

It takes a Cast Away kind of alone time and a “medical crater” with physical numbness in the face and all to start getting desperate.  And did I mention pain?

Okay.  Early January, 2012.  “The Abyss of Despair.”

I signed up on a dating website.

That’s all you need to know to foresee an impending disaster.  I can imagine these sites make up a slice of the statistical pie in suicide rates these days.

The first day, I was kind of happy.  The next, I was in a form of hell.  I didn’t eat for twenty-four hours.  I wrote, pleaded, bargained and asked for a shallow-minded means of help.  I had a few nightmares.  I had a vivid dream that got me to read the Bible.  I psychoanalyzed myself.  It was one remarkable week.

“I am not ready for what’s ahead.”  “If I see this guy in real life, I am in trouble.” “I am helpless, and that makes me dangerous.”  It didn’t exactly help that this “cratering” followed a discovery of yet another warning—in the Bible.  I must be pretty evil to fear that book now, right?


I was forced to change my ways, or at least my thinking, my perspective.  If I can fast for forty days and nights in 2010, and manage two software projects, both of which depend on a third, I ought to be able to move in life, right?  Right???

(damagedheart image)
illustration (and obsession example) © 2013 adamjasonp

I was forced to open my damaged heart.
Now, like before, after starting to open during youth, I have the willingness to have deep, intimate conversations… yet no one’s there.

To Be Continued…


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