October comes
around. November follows. December sets in and before I know it, January
arrives. The other months step in line and continue on into oblivion. I page
through a history book, newspaper or wiki link, it all shows patterns. Times
are changing, times are stagnant, time is irrelevant. What I want is death.
Why? Because life has no meaning. I look back at what I’ve done and I just
don’t see what good any of it will do. I’ve failed more than I’ve succeeded.
Nothing is worth it.
Just the other day,
my friend called saying another has passed away. I hardly knew whoever it was
and just shrugged it off. It felt heartless and cold, but I did it anyway. I’ve
done worse, so it didn’t faze me too much. I thought this as I made my way to
work, where I get minimal respect and have to slave away for just above nine
bucks an hour. Fast food will drain all my energy. I have a girlfriend as well,
but we never talk. I always assume she’s busy and we never meet, though we text
occasionally. It feels like I’m beginning to lose her, but what have I gained
at all? I haven’t been a good boyfriend and I’m afraid of what our future would
be. This jumping around endlessly is tiring.
I clock in on
schedule, as I never know if my bosses want me working now, earlier or later.
I’m never included in discussions, as my life’s decisions are made without me.
Something must change or give way so I may find out what is to become of me,
but I need to wash my hands and head to the kitchen.
Time fades and
eventually my break arrives. I don’t talk with the other employees except for
small talk. They’re either all younger or much older than myself. I don’t fit
in here, but I’ve never fit in really anywhere. Depression isn’t something I’ve
thought much about, yet I do enjoy…what? What do I truly enjoy?
I can’t finish the
thought since I must check back in and continue working. Take the dough, check
the dough, add sauce, cheese, needed toppings, and put it in the oven. Rinse,
repeat. Stock shelves as necessary. Clean when there’s downtime and never talk
back, even when they’re wrong. It won’t change anything, anyway.
Time has passed and
the work is over. I’ve stocked and prepared for the next morning. I say goodbye
and be polite as I can, feeling that’s the sole thing I have control over.
My parents are
struggling. I am a burden that must be carried. Twenty years of existing and
this is all I have to show of it. Nothing. Even this is a tedious exercise that
I’m sure is boring you. I would apologize and say I’d try better, but it feels
useless to do so. What purpose is there in me divulging my worthless life’s
details? Maybe if I showed you what’s happened, it’d be easier. But there’s no
happiness here, nothing to make you feel any better about yourself, except
maybe that your life is not as bad as mine. And if its worse, then you may feel
as I do. Not much to say, but I’ll give you a couple run of the mill instances
that may enlighten you to my plight.
Waking up, I see a
mess. Clothes haphazardly flung every direction. Junk food wrappers and soda
cans fill remaining space and I’m clutching the blanket for the remaining
warmth that’s still clinging to the cotton.
I hate mornings. My
door has been broken leaving me with minimal privacy. I only am grateful for
living on the second floor alone, where my family lives clustered together on
the opposite side of the house. Occasionally they will yell up to summon me or
ascend the stairs themselves to deal with me. If it’s my father, my name will
echo in my eardrums for some time and will promptly be followed by a variant
of, “Come on, you’ll be late for school/work/miscellaneous appointment here!”
or perhaps, “Your mother wants you down here for some reason,” or, “I need you
to do something for me!”
He’s not a hard or
demanding father, at all. Yet I know I disappoint him and he doesn’t view what
I do as meaningful at times. My mother will be a bit overbearing if it’s her,
calling my name again and again until I loath its sound. How can one’s own name
be such a horrendous thing to hear from my own loving mother? Her remarks are
often a request or demand of sorts, or demanding an explanation of why
something has yet to be accomplished. Often I’ll hear, “Take care of
this/that/the other for me, will you?” or, “Why isn’t this/that/the other done already?”
and often, “Are you even listening to me?!”
I love them both,
but it can be tiresome to have the commands constantly flowing when you’re
already trying to take care of something else. And sometimes, my siblings will
try a similar tactic and barge in without saying why. I love my family, but
they are a large source of irritation plenty of the time.
I think I mentioned
my girlfriend once. Once we were madly in love and I would do anything she
asked, regardless of what the request was. Now, we rarely speak. I feel
terrible and angry at the same time. For five years we’ve done this dance and
nothing is sticking. I feel like a failure.
Have I come
downstairs yet? Not usually. Something pressing must be occurring for that to
happen. Otherwise, I’m lost in these thoughts
I’ve grabbed
whatever my nose deems clean, unless there’s nothing available or something
glaringly obvious I washed recently, as in still in the laundry basket. I fish
out some kind of pants and a button up shirt or t-shirt variant. I’ve been
noticing fewer details lately. Things fade in and out. My work shirt is a dark
green with the company logo and black pants and black shoes. I tend to wear
jeans of varying shades of blue. My shirts are either solid colored or
possessing a pattern of lines. How vague. How unnoticeable. How forgettable.
When I get
downstairs, there’s usually a dog in my way. He’s my dog, since I’m the only
one who spent any time with him as a pup and walk him almost every day. Except
recently. I’ve been avoiding him and he knows it. He follows me and barks at me
and wags his tail expectantly. I usually shove him away or force my way around
him. I’m not as nice feeling as I remember. I’m bitter now. I don’t know why.
More small talk is
made about how I’ve failed to accomplish some sort of chore or another while
hearing about whatever deed my siblings have down and wrote off. Things take
more effort now, and I feel sickly. In my mind, not so much as my body. But I
get illogical aches and pains, sometimes just from playing on my computer. This
all seems wrong to me. It wasn’t always like this. I wasn’t always so negative.
I had hopes for what
I would do in this world. I had hoped to write and entertain the masses, to
give them something to occupy an hour or so of their time and move on with a
smile upon their faces. Yet I hate how things are going. Life has no meaning,
and what I wanted to give now seems superfluous. It’s all pointless garbage
that no one would want to pay any mind to. It’s all shit.
I scramble about,
mishearing something a parent has said. My mind’s so scrambled it doesn’t seem
I’m connecting to reality. “Stop playing your damned videogames. Get in the
real world.” His words echo in my mind. My passions and desires are things of
ridicule from my own family. Society as a whole views my activities as
worthless. A gamer is a central part of my self-image, and it would seem that
the very games I’ve so loved and enjoyed cause me to rage at my losses and
further spin me into doubt. What the hell could I offer the world in this
state? Do they even deserve it? Would they even care? I have no way of knowing,
but the answer doesn’t seem to be good.
If it’s one of the
two days I go to school now, I enter in with my brother, who is one of the
brightest and positive people I know. Yet he is constantly in motion and busy
with his daily struggles. Somehow, he has overcome them and success naturally
follows in his wake. I have distanced myself from him, however. I wouldn’t want
to ruin or imped any of his progress. Displaying any of these negative thoughts
would put an unnecessary burden on his already stacked plate. These are
thoughts I must contend with on my own. Bringing in others is a foolish and
selfish endeavor.
I made that error,
however. The other night I sent her a text about it, about my thoughts and
feelings. She’s been depressed for a long time and battles daily with anxiety
issues. I left it rather off-handedly, but she got it out rather quickly. I
just feel drained, so often and tired that it slipped. I even told her about my
life pro/con list I had written. I didn’t tell her I was done, or that I had
left the pro section blank. It’s not that I’m in tears over it. More like a
rational calm about the possibility of death. Life and death are separated only
by the act of dying. Death is not something people fear, though they may claim
it. I believe it is the act of dying that frightens them. Death is just sleep.
Or as far as we know. The unknown is also a thing of fright, and that may be it
as well.
Never have I been
this disorganized. Except for my room, I’ve usually kept thoughts in some kind
of order. I don’t like being robbed of that. But my mind feels alien to me.
Something is wrong and I can’t figure it out. Maybe I should fight it, but
isn’t that what living is about? A fight to the death, in which death wins
anyway? Prolonging the inevitable is a fruitless task many have said and
claimed. Why so with life? What is it that drives humanity onward? I don’t
understand it anymore.
I didn’t say much to
my brother, letting him talk to me about his day and the mammoth schedule he
has undertaken. Impressive, to say the least, but I simply smile and congratulate
him or say something funny and witty. All meaningless. Inadequate would be an
apt description of my current confidence. How pitiful.
Yet if I show this,
it will only go to prove my points. Only someone who’s weak entertains the idea
of death, yet I do so. A train passes by our house not two blocks away. My only
fear is that it wouldn’t be instantaneous. Perhaps I could stage some sort of
crime, but I would have to put faith in the officer leaning towards deadly
force. But both of those methods would require me to endanger another person’s
conscience with my blood on their hands, even if I wished it. That’s terribly
unfair. I lack the means and courage to do the deed myself, so I sit here,
wallowing in self-pity.
I’ve kept up the
charade though. I keep a smile on when I need to and act as best I can. Being
the lead in several plays does lend some credibility towards my ability to
appear as one thing while hiding completely different emotions in my heart. It
frightens me how cold I’ve gotten. What person would have such hideous views
tucked away in their heart? Someone who has committed sins unforgiveable.
A game I played,
titled Amnesia, puts you in an old castle and has you trying to solve puzzles
to further your progress while also contending with monsters trying to kill you
without the ability to fight back. The protagonist leaves a note in the
beginning about why they chose to erase their memory voluntarily. I knew
perfectly well from the moment I began play. They have done an evil so terrible
it shudders the soul of the culprit for the rest of their days. I have my sins,
and I must live with them. Yet if there was another option besides dying,
amnesia would be a way of obtaining a clean slate.
School incidents
happen now. They mostly happen with me standing by now. I feel weak and try to
avoid participating without the teacher’s notice. I want to stop existing.
Passively fade away would be my dream of late.
Yet suicide is a
coward’s act and fate that I’ve long since told myself. I had never thought how
much pain one must feel in order to view that has the only escape. I never had
pity in my heart for that. How ironic when I place myself into that very role.
What a hypocrite.
Another allude to
acting. That’s the original definition of a hypocrite, an actor. It was Jesus
who claimed the Pharisees to being just that, actors. I’m just a fake, I
realize now. I wanted to be a hero, but I’m just a nobody. My life holds no
meaning. There’s no reason for me to keep this up. Other than those around me,
I have no ties here. It’s become a measure of how much pain can I hold verses
how bad am I willing to hurt those who love me. For now, I’d rather hold onto
that pain than harm them. That’s the only thing keeping suicide at bay. If I
could give my life for a greater purpose, however, I might be saved of some of
the harm that would have inflicted upon them if I hid it as I gave up my life.
A heroic, romantic, idiotic ideal. That’s all my mind has left now. Pitiful
phantoms of glory and heroism that I wish to emulate. Still more bullshit. The
defining measure of a hypocrite.
The day passes. I
observe. What is the difference going on now? Between me and them? I don’t
know. I don’t envy them, I’m actually glad. Maybe things will grow bright
again. There is beauty in the world. Beauty that I will never pass along. My
works are not of that grand standard. I want to sleep. But I always want to
sleep. I want to disconnect from the world. I want to hide away from it all.
They’ll do fine without me. I need to figure out the puzzle of escape, however.
What do I need to do
to stop this feeling of suffering?
Should I even try
to?
Right now, I don’t
think the answer is yes. But I still wish it could be.
