on distance, suffering, worth, the absence of speech and wintermute

when someone like me keeps her silence, it's often not because of not having anything to say, but rather a confusion, even frustration, over what to say that would have the most significance, to create the most meaning and effect.
i do not have the gift of tact, or wit, that obscure ability to translate most appropriately what i feel into what i should say about what i feel or think i feel.
there seems to be no guarantee that what is said will be understood, nor is there sufficiency in the verbalisation of emotions that often are too complex to be expressed in words, because once the thought turns into speech the intensity of the emotion at the root of it all is diluted, almost transformed into a parody of what it should have been.
mostly the intention is to cause the least pain, because i know my propensity for harshness and cruelty, and i know i can inflict great misery. it is immoral to do so upon people who love me, care for me, and because of this will forgive me and pardon my sin.
this is a trap, because when it is demanded of me to verbalise my thoughts or feelings, to spit out whatever my reaction to the problem is, anything, i find myself dumbfounded but completely agonised. yes, i am the typical idiot who bottles it all up inside and just morbidly anticipates the day when i will be given a golden opportunity to explode but will fail miserably to express my incredible anger anyway, when that time ever comes.
i will end up saying something bland and colourless, which i know is acceptable and politically correct and non-offensive to the listener, but feel like screeching curses inwardly. rather schizophrenic, maybe.
it is a suffering that is marginally bearable and utterly masochistic, and i force myself to swallow it down, all the time, even as deep inside i am a railing maniac lashing out at anyone, whoever is the temporal cause or catalyst of my anger.
perhaps it is beneficial thus for me to live alone, be alone, enjoy solitary life away from anyone who may cross me. but at the same time i do feel keenly the distance between myself and the people i need to keep me from becoming a monster. the distance is almost a prison, yet also a gateway, and sometimes it is a pain that can be felt in the gut, or an emptiness within that cannot be filled, which makes comfort food and eating for nourishment a fucking joke.
i may be very depressed but too numb to admit it, because i know keeping myself numb and distant is protecting myself from falling apart. if i just let the agony or suffering get me down, i cannot enjoy anything, and that is damning my life to worthlessness. what would there be to live for?
but it is harder and harder to find meaning and value in everything i do, in the decisions i have made, and in all the consequences. it is more and more difficult to care about finding satisfaction in completing a project or finishing a piece of work. i am just numb and want desperately to move on, make the process less unbearable, less time-corroding, less miserable.
when i have nothing better to say, i tend to give monosyllabic responses or give a reply that will make the listener happy. but silence is not golden. it is rotting me out from within. that is why i turn on the television all the time to make sure i cannot hear myself think self-destructive thoughts, to make sure there is always someone on the TV talking and not the wrathful demons i have to fight down.
when one considers all the suffering in the world outside, the crying starving children of any Third World nation stuck in abject poverty, the victims of natural disasters and tyrannical corrupt governments, this life is nothing, miniscule, petty, a fucking waste of resources.
maybe i don't deserve anything. i am just an idiot brooding over nothing worthwhile, working for nothing worthwhile, feeling ridiculous inner rage for nothing. why do i even exist?
it's cold. can't feel much anymore.

Morphomoth