Unbearable Mr. Bear
Sometimes, all you need is a hug...
- May 9, 2025
- 937
What is happening to me? Without the constant distraction of something, like a video, a game or a comic book, a sadness crawls from my depths and I start crying. An unresolved mystery that may be closer to denial, but I cannot guess from where its roots come. It could be accumulated sorrow from years of living in the bare minimum and having no desires other than just not suffering as much. Maybe I miss my childhood, but at the same time perhaps that's where this pain could come from: Parents that didn't do what was needed to keep me from misery, to deny my autism and instead of looking for a solution, hoping I would just straight up with time.
The tears are a mix of pain and catharsis. A begging slobber, asking for it to stop, that I'm sorry for whatever I did that made me deserve this, and a liberating feeling, an almost child-like supplication that begs for someone or something to take care of me, that all I am is a lost boy that never had a chance and that all I wish for the rest of my life is a caring touch, an assuring voice to make me forget the fear and the uncertainty.
All this makes me go towards the conclusion that I am broken: A product made to be discarded, but somehow still in use, plodding along with its needful heart beating at half pace, and wishing it could ever think the future could be better. People say that this is fixable, and honestly, I do believe them, but I also believe nobody has any reason to fix me in a society that values gain over compassion, and I am yet to find someone who is both capable of the feat, while still having a conscience higher than the opportunity to profit.
Maybe that is what makes people go towards religion and their perfect deities, yearning for an all-loving father or mother, to replace their broken ones. It may be a lie, but it's the lie they want to believe in, to keep them from realizing the world we live in. Perhaps many also idealize other man-made characters, and to have a beacon in the stormy existence we are in is wise, but a beacon made of lies is only going to last so long...
I, however, can see through lies, for I was lied to too much and grew bitter, unable to suspend my disbelief for a drop of hope. This, together with the belief that my mood can affect others drops me down even more, and relegates me into isolation: The quiet whining of a lonely man, unable to cope with adulthood, with its own depression, and with his unstable mood, holding out for a savior that will never come, wishing for the hug that will never cease.
Maybe it will get better, but it may get worse too. Sometimes, I wish it got so bad people actually saw that I need help, but again, what help is it gonna be? A good doctor that will actually try their best? Getting thrown into the psych ward again? Or maybe just platitudes that infuriate me more than help? Will I take the chance again, knowing the odds are towards pain and suffering?
In the end, I'm only filled with inquiry: What was my past? What is my future? What do I want to be done to help me? What do I need to be helped, to be happy? Is there hope for me? I wish I had the answers, so I can finally accept what my destiny is instead of double-guessing everything. All I want is an answer, a definitive answer, that makes me stop doubting, but I know I will still doubt that, because that is what my life is: A gigantic question mark that won't stop throbbing inside of my brain, no matter how many answers it gets, making me insecure about everything, and by proxy, miserable.
The tears are a mix of pain and catharsis. A begging slobber, asking for it to stop, that I'm sorry for whatever I did that made me deserve this, and a liberating feeling, an almost child-like supplication that begs for someone or something to take care of me, that all I am is a lost boy that never had a chance and that all I wish for the rest of my life is a caring touch, an assuring voice to make me forget the fear and the uncertainty.
All this makes me go towards the conclusion that I am broken: A product made to be discarded, but somehow still in use, plodding along with its needful heart beating at half pace, and wishing it could ever think the future could be better. People say that this is fixable, and honestly, I do believe them, but I also believe nobody has any reason to fix me in a society that values gain over compassion, and I am yet to find someone who is both capable of the feat, while still having a conscience higher than the opportunity to profit.
Maybe that is what makes people go towards religion and their perfect deities, yearning for an all-loving father or mother, to replace their broken ones. It may be a lie, but it's the lie they want to believe in, to keep them from realizing the world we live in. Perhaps many also idealize other man-made characters, and to have a beacon in the stormy existence we are in is wise, but a beacon made of lies is only going to last so long...
I, however, can see through lies, for I was lied to too much and grew bitter, unable to suspend my disbelief for a drop of hope. This, together with the belief that my mood can affect others drops me down even more, and relegates me into isolation: The quiet whining of a lonely man, unable to cope with adulthood, with its own depression, and with his unstable mood, holding out for a savior that will never come, wishing for the hug that will never cease.
Maybe it will get better, but it may get worse too. Sometimes, I wish it got so bad people actually saw that I need help, but again, what help is it gonna be? A good doctor that will actually try their best? Getting thrown into the psych ward again? Or maybe just platitudes that infuriate me more than help? Will I take the chance again, knowing the odds are towards pain and suffering?
In the end, I'm only filled with inquiry: What was my past? What is my future? What do I want to be done to help me? What do I need to be helped, to be happy? Is there hope for me? I wish I had the answers, so I can finally accept what my destiny is instead of double-guessing everything. All I want is an answer, a definitive answer, that makes me stop doubting, but I know I will still doubt that, because that is what my life is: A gigantic question mark that won't stop throbbing inside of my brain, no matter how many answers it gets, making me insecure about everything, and by proxy, miserable.
