I want to quit. Not just the job; I already did that really. No, I want to quit everything. Pack up, abandon this life, run away. Start again, or not. Just hide, hibernate, congeal; accept my uselessness. Embrace it. Sink into it and be swallowed up within its darkness, where I can be still and quiet.
But I'm anchored here in the real word, adult obligations, bla bla bla. I think about leaving, going back "home" to live with my parents or something. But even if I could avail myself of leases, bills, et cetera, my parents live in ruins. They're also not exactly what one would call nurturing. And of course there is Jonathan, without whom I cannot live for even a single day. If pressed, I believe that he would move anywhere for me. I do not want to press him to move to hell.
Over these last months, I have become stunningly aware of my inability to partake in this world. Thinking on the one real position I ever had, I held it for two years and it almost killed me. Granted, it was demanding, but all worthwhile jobs are demanding. What made it unlivable were the things that I made it: what I did to myself in making it personal, in pushing too hard; and what I am incapable of: normal interaction with other human beings, not taking things personally, not becoming obsessed with work. Even after years of therapy I've made limited progress in my capacity for that kind of interaction, that kind of environment.
So here I am, asking people to hire me, all the while knowing that I can't really do it. Knowing I will burst into tears, maybe privately, maybe not, after a difficult phone call. Knowing I will want to (and will maybe actually) call in sick simply because I can't stand the thought of facing the streets full of people, the too crowded subway. Knowing that once again I will fail at truly functioning in this society, in this place that I am not built for.
And of Jonathan, what to think? What to do? How I do take him down with me, I know. Poor soul, would be so much better off if he hadn't gone and fallen in love. I am a disappointment to him, now, now that he knows the truth of me. Before, he had the wrong idea; saw me as someone strong, as someone who was able to be different but still function in the world. Essentially he believed in the illusion that I had built for myself. The one that I believed too, for a while.
I know that my weakness makes him disappointed in himself, that he is not automatically able to fill every absence, salve every wound, solve every problem. As if the train wreck of my life could possibly be repaired by any mortal. But the reality of that doesn't matter to him; all he sees is the inability to make right. Thus by my own failings he too becomes a failure, and he too must shoulder the burden of my incapability. This does not make me fonder of myself.
On days like this, I know I break everything I touch.