More of the same.

I don’t know where to begin. It feels like a month has passed in the span of a couple of days. It just keeps stretching on and on until I think that I won’t be able to stand it, until I think that I’ll go mad with it all. Is this life? Is it really?

My medications are useless right now, and will be for a couple of weeks. So meanwhile I get to grin and bear it, hoping that it will have some positive effect while my employers do everything possible to ensure that I barely sleep because I am working so frequently.

It seems like I haven’t left that building because I keep working loads of hours over my designated time as I am apparently one of the few people familiar with opening/closing procedures and all the menus at the two times of day. I wake up and I’m there, I go sleep and there I am again. Everyone is red-eyed and grouchy, and I’m quickly learning to dislike more and more of the people there. I’m trying to blame it on the stress of running a brand new restaurant; it is not unexpected that they should be higher-strung at the moment. Perhaps when the rush is finally through their company will be more tolerable, because for now I want to turn around and have a confrontation with someone every few minutes, and I’m standing there gritting my teeth and smiling at their stupidity.

I keep telling myself it will even out soon, but it doesn’t feel that way. I have had even less of a desire to do anything than usual. I’ve come home at around 3:00 in the afternoon these last couple of days, yet I don’t utilize the time. I’m strangely not physically tired, it is much more mental. I just don’t want to deal with anyone or anything. I want to be left to myself and not have to listen to my mother speak or the people at work talking about how exhausted they are when I’ve worked twice the hours and am in the back running back and forth while they stand in the front doing nothing. The other day someone came in and complained because there were seven people in the front, most of which were milling around, while we had about four in the back, three of which—including me—were not scheduled. Why would you schedule one person to work assembly when it is the second week of opening for the store? Particularly when every night we have been so clogged with orders that not only do we have the four to prepare on the screen, but ten more backed up behind it, and a single grill person trying to man the fryers and the stove to keep us stocked.

Today, it happened again, and I was pissed. The woman I don’t like (who I believe doesn’t like me much either), had me doing grill. Well, she forgot to put someone on the fryers, so midafternoon, when everybody decides they’re hungry, I’m using all four grills at once, stocking bread because the assemblers keep running out, and trying to keep up with all the greasy fried crap at the same time because she conveniently had everyone on break simultaneously. When you’ve been there since six in the morning without stopping, it is a little trying on the nerves.

The last few days I’ve wanted to  just say “I’m done” and walk away, because I don’t care. I’m already tired of everyone having ‘breakdowns’, of being yelled at for no reason, and dealing with a bunch of incompetent morons. And it’s only been two weeks. This doesn’t matter to me. I don’t want to work. I couldn’t give any less of a shit about the money. I don’t want to do anything but fade away without being seen. I want to fall into oblivion and never come back from it, because if this is life, then I don’t want it. I didn’t want it a year ago and today I find myself feeling the same.

Sure, this is supposedly just a rough patch, but even when it isn’t, I find myself disappointed that such a dull, meaningless show continues to run when I am no longer interested in watching.

8/28/08 (a post made a day before this one, one year previous)

“College is very close. Another year of boring classes and feeling like a human tick. I just want everything to end, I don’t care if I come out of it dead or alive.”

Keeping up appearances.

I think what I hate the most about having to be around other people is the smiling. That, and the pseudo-apologetic persona that I use to prevent storms from brewing when I am not in the mood to deal with any conflict. The other day a woman tried to order things from me while I was clocking in. I look up and inform her that I am unfortunately not trained to take orders and therefore don’t know how to use the machine. I always grin and say this politely, because it happens all the time. This woman says to me very rudely, almost under her breath, ”Well where is someone who can?” Oh gee, you know, I’m awfully sorry that my manager, who is over there kind enough to be helping with the chaos the grill people are dealing with, is delaying you from your greasy, disgusting food for ten seconds. Normally, when someone does this to me, asks me to do something I’m not sure/allowed to do, I’ll immediately go get someone who can. Instead I give her the grin that sometimes makes people back away from me, then I walk away without another word.

I went into a consignment store yesterday. One of the saleswomen was fluttering all around my godmother, completely ignoring me. This happens frequently, and I love it. Yes, please ignore me, I’m a shadow. Shadows don’t like to speak. They always think that because of how I’m dressed and how young I am, that there’s no potential money for them to claw out of me, which gives me the opportunity to shop without irritating interruptions or too much anxiety.

I actually found something that I liked, and couldn’t figure out which door was to the dressing room. I nearly went in the wrong room. I do things like this all of the time; I get nervous and I don’t pay attention to what I’m doing and I end up looking like an unobservant idiot. I’ve done some very embarrassing things while out, because I get stuck inside my head and put the rest of me on autopilot. I’ve walked into men’s restrooms before, broken things out of carelessness, and otherwise landed myself in situations where other people smiled at me sadly, as though they were thinking ‘wow, didn’t know they made things that stupid’. I do this at work too, and I’m sure by now that they think I’m a little slow in the head, because I repeatedly make mistakes, sometimes the same ones over and over because I am not mentally there. I either have no interest, or I’m too anxious to handle everything while I’m still thinking at full capacity. If I think, it will make me back out, give up, so…I don’t.

Anyway, it was ridiculous. I tried this dress on that was a little too small, but I really liked it and considered buying it since I keep dropping weight and would probably fit it just fine in a week if I wanted it to. Suddenly I was the center of attention. I awkwardly stood there letting my godmother state her opinion and all of that, and the saleswoman decided abruptly that I was the person to hound and flatter if she wanted to get at a wallet. I more or less got dragged to the mirror outside the dressing room, because the woman wanted me to look at it better. She said a bunch of the typical bullshit, repeatedly asserting that she’s a seamstress that could fix anything I don’t like about it, and that it was such a pretty dress and it was so me (she was very certain she knew…), and that it fit perfectly fine and I was lovely in it.

 The store was really small, so I knew some of the other shoppers were looking over at us curiously, and I was getting more stiff and unmoving by the minute. I pretended to examine it in the mirror, but was doing everything I could not to really look; I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to think about the fact that people behind me were looking, or that my godmother was looking or the saleswoman was looking. I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling horribly narcissistic for even thinking to try the thing on, and eventually managed to get away from them by more or less running to the dressing room. I stood in there for a moment, irritated and shy, trying to decide if I liked it. I decided that I did, and put my clothes back on as quickly as I could. I felt better with my suit of armor, and suddenly I was alright again, if not a bit jittery. I even let her have my mailing address because my defences felt too drained for me to argue with any real conviction.

I ended up putting it on hold, and went back at the end of the day and bought it after some thought, because I decided that it was me, at least the person everyone sees and believes is me. The manipulator. She wears dresses. She’s not a boyish misanthrope that covers herself up with layers of clothes and shrinks away from others. She smiles. She likes people. She treats them well and is always polite. She never thinks about how much it would please her to shout at everyone to stop fucking staring. She would never think to give the smiles that I give, the ones that are all threat and no happiness, and always follow as an unconscious reaction to some sadistic thought. She would never do that, think that. No, not her.   

Because she’s exactly what they want her to be.

Finding normal.

It’s nice when I reach equilibrium again. It doesn’t mean it’s over, but it means I finally can get some rest. I had a very bad spell there, one that hurt more than usual. It’s just days of an aching sorrow and loneliness that  hate. And no matter what I do, it won’t go away until it’s through with me. But it’s through. For now.

If I had a ‘normal’, this would be it. Somewhere between hateful and numb, with a constant desire to be alone. Needing other people around is an idea that is almost alien to me; when I get pangs for that it comes as a total shock. It makes me want to die more than anything else, because it means that I haven’t shed all of this humanity like I thought I had. Then there are times like this where I feel like the power is electrifying; I need nothing. I am back to knowing that no one matters, and being alone is always best. It’s meant for me. It feels insanely perfect sometimes.

I’ve been doing bad things. Things I shouldn’t do. But there is nothing to focus on now but the shell that I live in, the sad little world that happens to belong to me. This truly is mine, more than anything else. I think at times, the fact that I am in control of this one thing, pulls me through when nothing else could. I know that it is not all left to everybody else.

I slept until three thirty today. I woke, and my room was so dark from the black curtains that I thought it might be five. It’s funny, but I feel relief when I know that means fewer hours to be awake. It means sleep is coming sooner than usual, night will be quick to overtake everything.

I won’t have to worry, because everyone will be asleep soon and I’ll be all alone again. Just like yesterday, just like the day before that. Small little reprieves to keep me sane for awhile longer. Such a cruel trick.

Suffering in vain.

I know that at times, my situation is my own fault. I never like to negate the blame as far as lifestyle goes, because I chose that for myself. I chose isolation, I chose this bland reality of glaring computer screens and endless nights staring into the blackness at the ceiling, somehow wanting something more, yet never truly knowing (or caring for that matter), what it was. It just goes. I just go along.

I think that passiveness is both what I hate and what I love—it is always a draw. When I am passive, I don’t have to face anything; I ignore it, it then is no longer a part of my reality unless and outside influence forces it to be vomited forth once again. It can be buried under my layers of protection, virtually nonexistent. But that it just it, it still remains there, still is there. I forget that at times. It doesn’t just die, but stays to haunt, sometimes because I unconsciously seem to allow it to, a punishment for not being forceful and biting when I should have been.

So in retrospect, I am my enemy. And really, I do not see anything wrong with that. I have disentangled myself from my former life, so that now it is as though it never existed. I prefer it that way; no matter what I say at times, so scathingly of what has occurred, secretly it is my wish to have never endured it. To have been stuck in that hazy reality where it didn’t matter if I was lying, and it didn’t matter if nobody knew or cared. It was good to be surrounded by blatant apathy, as in a sense it kept me human. Back in the days when I believed in morality, I believed in friends and pursuing happiness. When I lied to myself to keep going.

Now I look for the darkest corners, hoping to find something that is more vile than what I have become, more hating, more disgusted, more self absorbed. Something to prove that this isn’t the end of all things, but the start of something that when I die will probably not even be half finished. I can only guess that there must be a million more fathomless pits to fall down, as this never seems to end. When I think I’ve had enough, the floor drops out again. And again, and again. The falling isn’t so bad; it’s the hitting the floor part. You convince yourself to get up again (for fuck knows why), to totter around on sore feet for awhile until you break another floorboard and sink right through. Again. And why, like a moron, you keep getting up again, you simply cannot answer. Human stupidity? A ridiculous sense of hope? Oh you can guess, surely, but eventually none of those answers make sense anymore.

 There is no reason to try again and again except some sort of refusal to accept reality. The reality is that no one fixes their floors. Of fucking course you are going to go through. Accept it. Get a motherfucking parachute, or die on one of the floors when you decide to live up to truth, I suppose. I keep saying that, dying. Ah well, old habits take a long time to die, just like people.

It’s no use trying to explain. Just give up.

I’ve been in a less guarded mood recently. My constant secrecy has, in a way, gone out the window. I feel like this is my pathetic ‘cry for help’ phase that I’m going to get over, hopefully soon.

I keep dropping hints; one here, one there. To some idiot, so called ‘friend’ on IM, and then a few today to my mother. Her reaction was the most funny, which I’ll get to eventually.

My old friendships have seen a sort of reniassance. That really is the only word that properly describes what has been happening. It’s as though, all of a sudden, at the exact same time, everyone wants to ‘reconnect’ with me and maintain what they believe to be, still existing relationships. Pity they are all so blind. I’m bored, I use them like toys, little pieces of shit to take up all the spare time and give me less of it to stand around contemplating whether or not death is the best option.

So, if it’s not long IM conversations, it’s emails, where I come across sounding normal. How I manage, who knows. Doesn’t matter. But anyway, it is all this faking that is poisoning me. I feel like I am back at my old house going to my old school, trapped with a bunch of people I want nothing more than to get away from. It was fun, at first, to reminisce about old bullshit and laugh, but bitterness takes over, when I remember that it was that life that made me. Here, now, what damage has been done? Nothing but a slow rotting that when I think about it, isn’t half so terrible as living those years all over again.

I would live a thousand of these darknesses, because I can’t bear to glimpse the light anymore. It is filled with a generic, disgusting nostalgia that serves no purpose but to remind me of what it is to be human, to be…in essence, just like everyone else. Blind. Needy. Weak. I don’t want that for myself. If I must live, let it be anything but in that hollow ungenuine world. I won’t go back. I’ll scream, I’ll fight. Because I won’t. No. Never, ever again. I had my moments there, but that place is what has killed me. It started this. I would die in rebellion, protesting, hating, without conversion. They will not have me. I will not have them. That I will ensure. They will go on in their stupidity, and I will not participate.

I am a joke to the world. Something to be laughed at. I am nothing but someone gone insane according to them, and even my own mother doesn’t take me seriously. Like I said, I tried to speak. She says something along the lines of ‘I knew you were going to give me a lecture’. I still tried, even after that, but she does not get it. I told her I have no goals, and all she said was ‘your goal is to own a house’. It was. Once upon a time. Now I just say it so I have something to say, so that instead of creating A SOCIALLY FUCKING AWKWARD SITUATION by saying ‘my goal is to get enough gall to blow my head off’, everyone can go on with their merry fucking lives and pretend that everything is FUCKING PERFECT!

Yes, I wouldn’t want to ruin anyone’s pristine universe, now would I? That would be wrong. To, for once, need someone to listen to me for for five fucking minutes and ask advice, that’s TOO much. I took on everyone’s burdens, I carried them. I held their fucking hands through the pits of hell, and I can’t even have five minutes…. It’s no wonder I keep folding in on myself, disappearing bit by bit. It sounds like I pity myself, but I don’t. I know I haven’t had it as bad as some, I know to some people this is completely inconsquential, but I’ve earned five minutes. I won’t have it though, not ever. No one resipricates. I was the moron who went and helped people and expected something in return, anything. No more though. I can’t remember the last time I offered help to someone without biting their outstretched hands off. Chew, chew, chew.

Being alive is my hell. I can’t be alone here; I’m always surrounded, never to get away. They caged me up. I want solitary confinement.

I’m not working well tonight. I’m somewhere else, trying to decide which is the part that haunts me in my sleep and whispers suicide, and which is the piece that screams back ‘no’ in absolute rage…are they the same thing? I want to separate them, I want two. If we’re not one, then maybe I can think something sane for a little while, just a little while. Then someone will decide something and I won’t have to wait anymore, mindless and robotic. Waking up because it’s required, and going to sleep because I am so sickened and bored with what it is to be alive, to be human. There should be an end to all of this, one I can tie up in a noose and call a day. But it goes, and goes, taking me along with it. Or do I take it along? I’d love to think so. Control is my pathetic little illusion I allow myself, the one I hold close.

The biggest liar wears the most yellow grin.

I don’t like the word weak, nor do I like the thought of ‘powerless’. But the one thing in my life that I don’t question, that I simply go with, are all the lies. It seems that in order to live life, there is no choice but to lie if you would prefer to be left alone rather than being constantly pestered. Not that anyone would pester. I don’t think anyone cares that much. They don’t even feign that. But they do bother to an extent, and the last thing I want is to end up on the other side of a shrink, talking about my bullshit life and pretending to have enough emotion to truly care where it leads me.

There’s always the question of, ‘how are you?”, or “how are you doing?”. All I want to say is “why should I fucking tell you when you don’t care anyway? Isn’t that a bit pointless?”. If I said, “I feel like I’m dying”, what would anyone say? All it would be is an awkward moment where the person opposite me has to ponder a so-called ’socially acceptable’ answer. You get the people who care for five seconds, then move on when the situation isn’t stimulating enough for their drama receptors.

I won’t lie, not here. The truth is, I’ve stopped caring about the apathy; I expect it at every turn, just like I figure the sun is going to rise even when I’m dead and buried—or burned, I suppose. Cremation is cheaper sometimes. The world is apathetic, I am apathetic, numb. What does it matter who is what?

It gets sad though when you lie to everyone, even the people you don’t hate with that overwhelming loathing. I want random pedestrians to die about as much as I want the most self-righteous, biggoted assholes to die. Is that really so wrong? Is there a crime against hating everyone equally? But yet I put up the whole ‘mask of indifference’ and pretend that I don’t loathe the entire world to those that would hate me for it. If I told the truth there would be nobody, and right now, I am in no position to have nobody, no matter how much I might wish for it at times. 

The rest of the time though, walking down the street, moving through the abandoned shopping carts at some packed superstore, there is, for a half an hour, the real me. I am awake for once, not concealed beneath layers of insanely secure barriers where my conscience practically sleeps in wait. The only lie are the clothes I wear, the way I make sure my hair is neat, even though I couldn’t truly give any less of a flying fuck that I am alive and breathing.

There is something honest about being in a crowd that surprises me. I don’t blend well, I don’t try. It’s strange to me that I am more ‘me’ when there are strangers around than when there are people I respect and am loyal to. Perhaps I don’t want them knowing the real truth? That seems funny to me for whatever reason. But I’m biting in public, alternated with a sickly sweet condescending sort of politeness that no one is ever smart enough to read into. I open doors, say thank you, excuse me. I wear a fake, sarcastic smile. I feel…good. I am letting them know exactly what’s there, but they either do not see or do not care. And that is just fine. Let them be blind to it. I wear many faces, and I indescriminately despise, because there is nothing else that pleases me more.

In truth, in such a place as this…there is nothing else. I don’t expect more. It does not exist, not for me, never for me. I think dwelling on the more unpleasant aspects of life makes it more real. It’s a bit like the difference between watching some sappy romantic comedy, then watching a drama. The romantic comedy looks and smells fake; even the character’s lines aren’t all that believable, too ‘larger than life’ to be reality. The with the drama you ask yourself, ‘can life be that bad?’. Then when you sit down, reflect on your life for five minutes, suddenly it hits you: yes it can. Perspective? Sure. If you say so. Maybe reality just isn’t your thing.

There’s been good, sure. But it is so damn far between that I have to concentrate to find it, and when I do it is drowned out by dull shades of grey. Like a beautiful, bright painting that had a future, but got drenched in old, filthy grey water. The cup just fell over, and suddenly, the pretty parts are all gone. Now it’s all clouded together, the colors bleeding out. It’s broken, you can’t fix it. Once it’s ruined it is gone forever.

I’m stuck on bleak. I should take pills like the rest of the world and just stopping being so melodramatic, yes? Maybe I don’t want pills. Maybe I don’t want to cover up reality and dress it up as something perfect like it isn’t. Maybe I don’t want to be a coward and hide from the disgusting world outside my door, go on every single day like it isn’t there, like things are just fucking inconceivably perfect. That would be a lie. And we all know I don’t need any more of those.

I hate me, the world hates me (even if they haven’t all met me yet), and that doesn’t even matter. What matters is I am wrong. Humanity is wrong. Broken. Fucked. And I can’t get the hell away from it, no matter how many steps I take forward or back. I’m stuck, with shitty options on all sides. Die or live, those are the choices. They both have their drawbacks, life even moreso. So the question is, as always, what to do?

I’m getting nowhere here. It just goes and goes and I watch it go by. I’m tired of participating, tried of trying and getting slapped in the face for it. Maybe I am giving up. Truly. I hate to do that, but each time I move forward there is something that nullifies the good feelings it should bring. I have no pride for what I’ve done, just blatant indifference. If there is no happiness in doing things, then what else do I have? Do I need to start liking the bad, be one of those ridiculously optimistic types that smiles when their face is a bloody pulp and the world shits on their face? Is that what I need? Because clearly, whatever I am doing now is accomplishing nothing. This is stupidity, what I am doing. I should not live if I am so damn unhappy with no options to change things that won’t further my hatred and discontent.

Maybe I am just being a stubborn moron. I don’t know anymore.

Paranoia and moments of panic.

I keep having these thoughts of deleting everything and running away from it. Not just here, but everywhere. Like maybe if I cut of the last few veins I’ll finish bleeding to death and it will all be over. I feel like this stupid blog and my shitty attempts at writing are basically the last things I have left to really obsess over. They kind of keep me going in a way.

There is a secret part of me that wants to be remembered, but I know how ridiculous that is, how pointless. I don’t even like people, so what purpose is there in being remembered by them? They have no respect for me, and I have even less for them. I think that there are human pieces beneath this monster, and those are what make me so fucking uncertain all of the time.

I have these times too, where I freak out. I keep imagining that someone is going to figure out who this blog belongs to, one of those long lost people. I admit I haven’t been the best at covering my tracks. There are connections everywhere, and to me that is frightening. It sounds unfounded, but if you lived my life…it is full of so-called ‘impossible’ things happening. Everyone says, ‘oh, don’t worry about it, things will work out’, yet for some disgusting, unfathomable reason, they rarely do. Sounds like a perspective thing, but trust me, it isn’t. Even my optimistic mother admits that as a family we are on the verge of being cursed.

It’s as though the world has something against each of us. Around every turn seems to be a bottomless pit, so I’ve learned, as a tool of survival, to expect it to be there. Now I look like a pessimist, when in fact I’m just a psychotic realist who knows that the chances of things going right are only increased if I take to pounding the world into submission with my fist. Otherwise, nothing works out. I have to want it, just like the stupid driving license. If I don’t keep vigilant, like a sandcastle, it just falls apart. It has me high-strung, nearly throwing off my own sanity.

I keep thinking I’m going to die and/or kill myself, and this stupid eyesore of a blog is still going to be here. Along with everything else. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, the world finding out all my dirty little secrets? That underneath this exterior of ‘perfect’ is nothing but a sniveling, cowering misanthrope that wants to slink away and die of unnatural causes?

The panic was yesterday. Finally I calmed myself down enough to lay down, where I forced myself into a deep sleep. I had dark dreams in dreary rooms in filthy houses that I’d much rather forget. There are nightmares wherever I go, both awake and asleep. And I know, somewhere inside this stubborn person, that I have no one to blame but myself. I am the cause of all of this. I am alive, and so it must be. Both consciously and subconsciously, I hate myself. And every damn chance I get, I keep telling myself that, beating it into my head. I am the cause of every problem, of every flaw. It is me who makes this unliveable.

Why try?

I kind of realize now that there isn’t much that truly matters. When you try to think of things that are important, I’m sure most can come up with quite the list. But in the end, it is all in vain. It’s for a life that doesn’t matter in a world that makes no difference. It will all eventually end, as things inevitably do. So why try? That seems to be all I ask myself anymore.

I think I am a pleasure seeker. Basically, I search for things that provide even the most fleeting of stimulation. I believe that is why I have a tendency to center my pathetic life around anything that can make me feel as though I am somehow still breathing, still here. Maybe that’s why the bad, the negative, can hurt so much at times, because it is so damn amplified to me. It feels to be overwhelming, when I know there are plenty of others who have it worse. But there is a difference, a monumental one. They want to live, regardless. They still believe in hope and things getting better. Maybe it is as those hated ones say it is: a matter of perspective.

Is it a perspective? Do I imagine every time I go into the world all of the scathing looks, the rudeness, the complete disregard of my life as anything of value? Do I imagine that apathy toward myself? Do I imagine the fact that there has only been one person in my life who has never turned their back on me? No, I don’t imagine it. It happened. I was there. And instead of being a fool and skirting aside the real issues like a fucking coward, I’m doing my best to face them down. Because unlike the so-called optimists and pessimists, I am not afraid. I do not care.

I accept that this is hell. I accept that I am meant to be alone. I accept the fact that people may read this and not give the slightest flying fuck. But it makes no difference. I am all I see here. I am all there will ever be. And the day I die, still as hateful and lost as I am now, I will still not be afraid. I will not. Because in the end it makes not the slightest bit of fucking difference. This world, my life, was over before it ever again. My mistakes will fade, I will fade.

And as I have said, it will make not the slightest bit of fucking difference.

Things aren’t as pretty on the inside.

I’ve always wondered what there would be were I to be cut open, gutted like a fish. Would I be filled with a disgusting sludge like an oil slick? Would they be able to tell, right now, doing scans of my brain, that there is something fundamental missing from my being?

If you ever look at the brain scans of serial killers, they usually have something in common: little frontal lobe activity. Anything that goes on, tends to be toward the back of the brain, and in very small amounts, where as in a normal person, mostly the front is lit up like a damn Christmas tree.

Sometimes I wonder if that damn scan would just be black, nothing. I feel as though there is nothing to read, nothing to see. I’m dead already so there shouldn’t be any activity.

It has been so bad lately, that numbness. So damn consuming. I hate to say it, but I’m forgetting how to feel. I am literally so used to not feeling anything that when I get a flicker of something in reminder, I am shocked. I have to stop what I’m doing and evaluate the pang of whatever it was that managed to breach the surface of this frozen black lake.

Am I so far gone? Am I so fucked up? I don’t know if I’ve ever felt happiness, and the idea of finding that by interacting with others sounds not only foreign, but ridiculous. It is being around others that has made me what I am, that and my own inclination to be alone. I know it is my fault; unlike most I am perfectly willing to accept that all the problems in my life are generally caused by me, by making bad decisions or by befriending people when I already knew it was useless.

Why do people always say it will be okay? Is that supposed to be placating? It feels more to me as though they have lost hope and have nothing to say but “it will improve”. And what if it doesn’t? Because you know what? I found myself saying that I don’t know how many posts ago (could have been the last one, for all I know) “it can’t get any worse”. Gee. How nice would that be? It is getting worse. I’m stagnant. I’m an emotionless waste of nothingness that doesn’t care, can’t care, even though I try again and again.

If this is what life is, why live it? What is there here besides living out of sheer fucking loyalty to the people around you? Why should I live for them? How is it selfish to want to leave to not only improve my own life, but in the long run, theirs as well? Sucide isn’t selfish. The ones who are selfish are the pieces of fucking shit who stand there and tell you it is because secretly they want you to stay for their sake. Not only that, but the idea of suicide makes them positively cringe. I’m sorry you’re a squeemish coward, I’m also sorry that you’re too fucking stupid to understand my reasoning, or even take the time to listen to it. The fault is your own in that respect.

Whatever. What does it matter? Maybe it’s good that I’m completely forgetting what feeling something is like. I can’t even fucking write about feeling anymore, even in my stories, because all I do is sit back in my chair and roll my eyes! I keep thinking, “why is this character feeling anything, why does it matter? Who cares… They’re just emotionally stunted children who need to grow the fuck up.”

Is there point to feeling anything? I don’t think so. Isn’t it feelings that causes some of the world’s biggest problems? Sure, feeling can make people brave and fucking stupidly empathetic, but what the fuck do I care? It’s all the same to me. I’m adjusting. If I live to be a lot older, by then I’ll likely just accept all of this for what it is: primal. There is nothing to be felt in being an animal, nothing to hold one back. You simply are. And out of all of this hell, perhaps that is what I need: to shed my ideals and just take whatever happens as it comes. Failure and success would mean nothing; they would feel one and the same because in the end I would keep trying no matter what the outcome. Isn’t that what this is about? Trying until there is nothing left?

A life walking backwards, never forwards….

Why is it that nothing seems to get better? I wait, wait, wait some more, yet it just gets worse and worse. Each change I make is a step backwards, never forwards as it had looked upon first glance. So many damn mistakes that I just can’t fix, so broken that the pieces no longer fit….

I won’t lie; it hurts to be this way, at least during the times I feel it. I’ve lost myself in writing, but it doesn’t matter, because it changes nothing, improves nothing…. When I stop typing I’m back to my life. It doesn’t just disappear or fade away, it’s always there, like a perpetual nightmare haunting me. I want out. There are only a handleful of words that bring feeling from me:

Suicide.
Death.
Useless.
Hateful.
Numb.
Destructive.
End.
Finish.
Anger.
Wrath
And my absolute favorite, Martyr.

There is not one word that can describe this hell in its entirety; it takes many. But it is a black hole of nothingness that is bringing me down, killing me. And in the end…I don’t want to be saved. I want anything but to be saved. I want to die, and I want everyone to shut the fuck up and just let me do it. I want the voices to stop, I want the loyalty to die out. I want everyone, for one brief instant, to realize that I am the liar. I am the fake human being that was pretending all this time, feigning emotions I didn’t have, smiling when there wasn’t a fucking goddamned thing in this shit hole to smile about.

Most of all, what I want…out of everything, out of all of this bullshit…. Is just to stop. To end. To be over. There was never anything here to begin with, and I live on for false purposes because I can’t sever that monster that wants to rape it all and break it piece by piece…. I want to fall. I want a bullet in the head more than I want breakfast.

Yet I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’ll wake up alive tommorrow, still breathing, still hating it. Still going on as the perfect liar…so fucking perfect that no one even knows.