An amalgam of sorrows and the wisdom they give

Lately I find myself trying to change how I view the world and people around me. I try to put myself in their shoes when I smile at them and they don’t smile back, maybe they are the same as I am, and are nervous about someone trying to reach out and form a connection with them. Much the same as I am. It’s hard to change when I’m always so afraid, trying to move forward when I feel like I’m going crazy in my head seems like an exercise in futility. As if I’m running in quicksand with concrete shoes.
Talking to my friends, I’ve realized that I attempt to make things work until I have a breakdown, I force myself to do things that I hate, and to be in situations that make me unduly nervous, as if I’m testing myself, and somehow magically this time will turn out better than in the past. I force myself till there’s nothing left, no way for me to fake my brain out any longer and then I collapse.
More and more now, I find myself thinking about when I was young. I try to pinpoint where things took a turn from endless possibilities, to the same path stretching on into eternity. The exact moment when I started to live in fear of everything, the exact moment when I told myself that this was how it is, this is what everything is, nothing more, nothing less. The farther those early memories slip into the past as I age; it’s harder to recall if I was happy more than I was sad, comforted more than I was scared.
People are fond of ridiculous sayings. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, view the world through rose-colored glasses; two in the hand one in the bush, people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Do people say these things because they lack the courage to voice their feelings and have to rely on puritanical proverbs? I cannot point even one finger, as I have been lying to myself all my life, never mind anyone else.
Now I’m caught in the middle, in a sea with no land in sight, velvety bitter regrets swirl around my body, they weigh me down and drag me just under the surface, convincing me that this is the end. The end is near, and I feel it, but I am not afraid. Funny that, how I’m terrified of everything in life but now I’m no longer afraid of dying or death. Not so unafraid that I’d actually willingly seek it out, but when it comes I won’t be afraid of it.
My brain feels like the ever-changing house, in House of Leaves. Hanging tape measures and lighting flares and using fishing line to mine the dark depths of things I’ve long forgotten will do absolutely no good. In the next instant, they will be gone, replaced by a door far too narrow to slip through, a flat gray wall that stretches in both directions forever. My brain is not a peaceful place, it feels like it changes on a whim, and I’m only along for the ride. Well I want off this ride, I get motion sickness, and I want to be the captain of this crazy train, this runaway cruise ship. Maybe I will be one day, maybe never. Maybe I should just not think about it anymore. Maybe, maybe, maybe.