I Get So Fussy When I'm On My Own

What does it take to work things out? I stayed up all last night trying to answer that question. Why do I live this life? I obtain little bits of information about how the world works, the kinds of things which are going on, but where do they go? How do they help me?
I am used to doing things by myself, for myself, but I won’t lie - if I had a choice I’d choose help. Would everyone? I would choose help so that I wouldn’t have to work so hard to get down the basics; I’d choose help so that I would have something to lean on when things start to fall apart. Because things are always falling apart, around me.
I’m clumsy. I forget to hold things upright.
There’s some saying, about watching the vase as you’re holding it, and that applies to me. How do I make things work? Why do things work for other people and not for me? The same action, the same situation. I come off covered in mud, while others fly away on white feathers. I need someone to answer that question.
I need a lot of things, actually. I don’t know where to go to get these things fixed, you know? All the parts of me which are defective. The way I think, and the way I speak. Where does one buy a new larynx?
So what am I trying to find. What am I trying to build? Inside me I’d like there to be some sort of spark, some sort of shining City of Alvin Maker, but I know that’s not going to happen. I just know that not everyone else feels this blackness, this decrepit half-evil thing that lurks in the very darkest places of humanity. I know that somewhere on the road, quite a while back, the thing which kept me afloat sort of just flew out the window, and I didn’t even notice it was gone.
And by the time I’d realised I’d travelled too far to go and get it back.
So now it’s just me, and my churning gut, facing the world. But we can’t do it alone, you see? There is something that we need, a missing thing, and it would help us do the best we could, only it was gone. And it left no mark, no forwarding address. Only a brief scent, the faintest trace of a fingertip, just to show that it was once here.
Which is crueller, really, don’t you think. At least take your memory with you.
So I eat, to fill the blackness. I lust. I blow out my brain cells with caffeine and alcohol and mind-numbing boredom. I throw away all that is good, is possible, about me, to become someone that I know I shouldn’t be, and who I don’t want to be on a good day, and try and console myself with the idea that we are all many facets, at the moment, and at the end?
We are all nothing but a mess of chromosomes, and a tangle of things nothing more than sheer luck.
It doesn’t make me feel better, but I’ve never been able to justify anything that had.
I don’t want to be a cliché - I don’t want to do ‘rediscover myself’, or jump off cliffs, or deep see dive to swim with humpback whales. I don’t want to do any of those things and have some woman write about me in New Idea. That’s not what I want.
I want to be normal.
It is so elusive, normality. It shouldn’t be. Why is it? I have a finger wrapped around it, at times. It’s in my sight, I can smell it and taste it and feel the very fragile beginnings of it; until the rug is brushed violently and my world slides off that atlas into deep space once more. Blackness. Nothing. Calm.
It feels like no matter how many times, how hard or how little I try, I always end up in the same place. Why is that? What am I missing that these other people know how to work?
Why am I not normal? And what do I do to - once and for all, finally - get there?