Deradicalized Subject Notes to Self: Sending Up PTSD Electronic Flares Because There Is Nothing Else To Do Here. Marooned In Insanity.

I am down to 166 lbs.

I feel like I am on the verge of suicide and yet I am not hurting myself. 

I want help but I can't seem to get it. 

I'm lonely. There is no one to talk to. And so I am submitting this less than admirable non professional report. 

The music at work gets in my head and makes me crazy - that insanity is compounded by tinnitus.

My perception of time is that it either is sped up or so slow that I have fallen out of time. Either way I fall into a panic.

I am lonely. 

I'm physically and emotionally lonely. 

This isn't good writing but it is where I am at. These words indicate concerning symptoms and yet they will go unnoticed.

I'm trying to send up an electronic flare from my critical marooned isolation. If it is seen it will be disregarded. The words I fail at writing do not matter. It is only more of myself that continues to be unseen. Wasted words perhaps.

Some guy in line at a bakery I stopped in at put his hand on my shoulder to pass behind me in a confined crowd - it made me realize how long it has been since I've had any gentle touch.

He spoke confidently in a voice that had been sometime back shaped by involvement in a college Fraternity - He said that "he didn't want to 'wang' me" as he wedged himself through the narrow area at the check out. I said I wouldn't mind if he did. We laughed or rather guffawed. He went and sat down with his family.

People like me don't make family. It's for the best. But it is not easy carrying on like this.

I miss talking to the agents because at least they feigned interest and were well educated and professionally trained, intellectual and of a social and professional caliber well above my station in this country. They ran on a certain clockwork. Methodically, punctually, regularly. I appreciated the conversation. I hope I made them laugh and I hope some of those laughs will be remembered were with me. I suspect though more I was the object of their laughter now forgotten. What I haven't forgotten are their cutting comments and seemingly off the cuff assessments - the stinging judgments passed. What if they had just helped a little instead.

I feel trapped in the US - in Belgium I knew people from around the world from all different classes of life. Here I am stuck in one depressing strata of urban poverty and social malaise defined by neighbors burnt out on opiods, meth and too many blunts.

I really want help. Professional help. I really need a case worker who can grasp my somewhat deceptive circumstance. I can't seem to get connected with anyone for any assistance.

Why if my life is over am I the last one to get the message and why if my life is over must my heart still beat.

What is wrong with me and how do I get help. This nagging, nagging sense that something is very wrong.

It always feels like something is wrong. It always has. It still feels like the tragedy that unfolded in 1976 is still happening.

I'm in angst and I cry and I panic and I just want someone to talk to or be there on some level. Why am I stuck in these post family nightmare equations that wont end until I do - why can't I just be free of this and find my own life.

How can I be like this - for so long. 

Why do I just get to watch everyone else having a life and i'm trapped in a psychotic dimension of the past.

...and on to the next half-nervous break down... 

Its 5:23 am and my heart is racing. 

I can't get back to sleep.

In the 17 years with my ex this didn't happen. 

We always slept together no matter what... 

No nights of personal terror of being trapped alone.

...even if we weren't always able to reside in the same country we always shared a bed.

Their life went on.

Mine went back to where I had left it for Belgium

It hasn't gone on much from there.

When I awoke at 4 am i was thinking I don't want to die.

It's either I think my life is over and that I should be dead.

Or that I should just get the inevitable over with.

To being afraid of being dead.

And not wanting life to be over.

Then its another panic attack at 4:33 am
And to take my mind of that I think to the past as one does.

I am not the asset - Perhaps never was.

The short term asset of sorts for invisible agents.

For which I never mattered. 

The only time I think I've ever been an asset and I never understood my place in their equation.

And they never understood the toll their machinations and designs had on me. 

Nor do they now care. 

I am sure they are tucked away in well appointed addresses of a suburban nature with three car garages and insulated by a wealth I will never know.

Anyways I am not that asset now.

I am not someones husband. 

I am not someones brother.

I am not someones son.

I'm scratching my head over thinking am I someones friend.

Because no one is calling, emailing, texting. The doorbell hasn't rung in so long I periodically check it myself to make sure it still works. 

These nights are very difficult

I remember having things to look forward to. Places to go and people to go there with. 

To now. 

Trapped alone in some bachelor syndrome.
I guess this is what being a post "de-radicalized" looks like - None of this I would wish on anyone.