Sometimes I think it would be best if I simply slept until death. Dreams can be haunting, but you can always rest assured that they aren’t real. The worst things imaginable can happen, but the truth is, they didn’t. You wake up and no one is dead, and your life wasn’t ruined by some freak accident. You can breathe in the relief, feel the way the ache in your chest recedes so it may come back at the appropriate time. Yes, that’s right, it wasn’t real. Then again, sometimes it all feels…not real.

When you’re numb, you’ll have these occasions where it takes over you to the point that it becomes physical. You’ll stare at something interesting, or maybe even nothing, then realize that it has been a half an hour. The passage of time means nothing; it’s inconsequential. And when you sleep…nothing makes sense anymore. It all blurs together, and those dreams really are real, because they’re all you’ve got to cling to in this toned-down, survival-of-the-stupidest, pointless existence.

You wake up and find yourself suddenly feeling something. A burning, seething rage. Maybe even hatred, if you’re fortunate. You end up pissed off. You ask yourself why that misery couldn’t be real. Why couldn’t that horrible shit happen to you, just to push you over the edge, just to torture you like you know you deserve? At least it would be something. At least it would be real.

If only life was real. Maybe then I wouldn’t keep willing it to be over.



I don’t have to be anyone.

The food didn’t taste like anything this morning. I didn’t want it. I finally gave up at trying to make it sweet and settled for bland. I ate as much as I could convince myself. I want to be Raymond. I want Tyler to put a gun to my head and see if the next morning I have the best breakfast I have ever tasted. I want to see if I wake up that morning and don’t feel sorry. I want to see if something comes to me in the morning haze, a feeling maybe. I want to wake up and experience something besides dread and a wretched disappointment with myself. 

People are in love with an idea of themselves. Maybe in a sick way, I am too. That vision is supposed to propel us through life, make us desire improvement and recognition for our efforts. We all want to appear better than we are, and as a consequence this gives us motivation to live, to have the satisfaction of not only pleasing ourselves, but receiving praise from others for being so fucking incredible. A vicious little cycle.

But if you don’t care? If that vision is all about being the cruelest person? You must find enough satisfaction in what you selfishly get out of it. I’m not suggesting that it isn’t always selfish, in fact, come to think of it, conventionally this is less so than most visions. In truth, you have to settle for less than everyone else. You have to be alright with the fact that no one is going to understand it or appreciate it as you do.  You have to go it all alone and hope that the monsters that lurk aren’t going to feed off of you in the dark. Your suffering means nothing to anyone, and they will laugh at you and attack you until you are beaten down and weakened. No one will tend to your wounds. No one will regret that they tore that wretched thing down. Ugly things shouldn’t be suffered to live, after all.

And I am not ready. I leapt off the tower of humanity out of fear instead of faith, and there was nothing below to break my fall. I crashed all the way down, condemned to be a mangled heap of something that once was. In my eyes you either accept yourself (even if it is reluctant) or you spend a lifetime doing the job of killing yourself rather than allowing the world to do it for you.

Maybe the true escape is being nothing and having no qualms about it, not being burdened by what you’ve been taught or by whatever inadequacies you see yourself as being afflicted with. Maybe we are being stupid by trying for something that we all know is as pointless as anything else.

All we do is struggle constantly against who we are because we are so enamored with what we could be.

I’ll dig the hole and bow my head.

I feel like a wrecking ball: I’m going straight toward inevitable destruction. It seems I know nothing else, and would accept nothing else. If I was normal what would I be? Would I be vaguely satisfied?

I live and breathe discontent. I’m beginning to wonder at the depth of this masochism. Just how far does it run? What lengths do I go to in order to make it/keep it this way? I have never believed I was free of blame regarding this. I wholly take credit for the state of my being, of my life. But I must wonder now if it is not the constant struggle that compels me to stay when all reason tells me what a mistake it is. Something is restraining me. Just barely, but there it is. Like a chain I can’t be rid of. I can rub my neck raw, choke myself with it, but it will not come loose and I do not have the courage to test the absolute limits of my flesh.

 Ah, cowardice. There it is again, my one companion. I can’t go the extra mile; I am trapped, bound by my own limitations. I am fearful of being free, of letting go. Sentimentality, what a bitch.

Part of me must take pleasure in this misery; I can find no other explanation.  It has to end, sooner or later. The pain will bite through, will overcome whatever I am getting out of this waste of existence until I am left as the shell I always knew I was.

If only I wasn’t so numb. If only I could bring myself to care.

I feel so wretchedly obedient. I feel like a slave to it all, when I know for a fact that I have had the key to this lock since the day I was born.

Murphy’s Law.

Unfairness knows no bounds, it appears. It’s been a nightmare week, if I’m to be completely honest. I think there was a brief period there where I forgot what it was like to have the foundations of my life be shaken relentlessly, until the world feels like it has no right side up. Moods I can handle. I can take the thoughts. Bring them. It’s the rest, the things that are out of my control yet not out of my control.

I go on autopilot so much that it doesn’t feel alien to me anymore. Even doing things that are enjoyable has this sensation of being automatic. Everything has lost its magic. It’s not new, it’s not fresh and exciting. It’s what it was yesterday. It’s what it was last week. It’s what it was a month ago.

It starts off with my quad needing to get repaired. Even the tires are being replaced. So lately I’ve been borrowing my father’s quad to go out with, if only to get myself out of the suffocation of the house. The other day I was going up a steep hill and went over a bush to discover that it had a huge boulder concealed beneath it. I centered up on it quite violently even though I was going pretty slow. I get to the top of the slope and stop to check out what damage I’ve done. At first glance it doesn’t seem like I’ve done anything too terrible besides scratch it up a bit, so I shrug it off but decide to cut the trip short just in case. I’m dreading getting home, because I know my dad will give me one of those looks and probably won’t talk to me without a grimace for several days—if he talks to me at all.

Naturally he makes a big to do about it. I go inside and decide that he can throw his tantrum by himself. He made it out like I’d done something horrible, but I know there’s a good chance he was just exaggerating. He tends to do that so that he can have an excuse to be angry with me and give a long speech about how nothing ever goes right for him because everyone else is always fucking it up. It’s not until a day later that I realize something is missing.

I’m hurrying to get dressed for work. I barely slept at all, having stayed up all night staring at the television screen in one of my typical bouts of numbness. Then I go to get the cellphone and can’t find it. I search everywhere, throwing things off of my messy desk in a huff. I don’t find it. I’m running late. I leave without it, using my dad’s instead.

I get home and he is in a mood. Hostile as fuck, and not someone I want to be near. I search through my room, search everywhere, and can’t find it. I begin to think that I lost it on a trail. It could have easily fallen out of my pocket. I spent the next few hours looking for it. It was hot and I was tired, but I looked. I managed to find the trail where I’d hit the rock, but it wasn’t there. I even walked down the entire hill, checking.

I get into this mode, the autopilot one. I misplace things perpetually. I forget what I’m supposed to be doing, or why. It drives me insane at times that I can’t keep up with the demand. I feel like I’m so barely alive.

Other things went wrong that I don’t even want to think about. The cellphone had to be shut off. That same day as I’m using my computer in the living room, it suddenly shuts off. I plug it into the power cord and leave it for several hours. When I come back it hasn’t charged. The battery gave out. Fortunately when I ordered it, one of the things I did not skip on was an extra one, so I used that. Just as an example of how stupid it can get, as I was taking the back panel off to replace it, the flashlight I went to use to better see where it was attached, flickered and died. I feel like everything I touch is doomed.

My cat is sick. He keeps shitting everywhere. He’s done it on the floor, in my chair, on my bed. This morning I went to go to sleep and as I start pulling the covers over me I let out a groan. It was the second time in a week that he’s decided to leave me a nice present. I was so tired I just removed the offensive material, balled up the blankets, then left them in the hall and snatched up a few clean ones from the cupboard. I only slept a few hours on the bare mattress, then threw myself a nice private tantrum.

And here I am now. I know I’m being a baby about it, but what does it matter? I haven’t said anything to anyone, just went on my merry fucking way as I always do. It seems like there is no point to say anything. My mother gave me an earful this morning, going on and on about how bad dad was yesterday and how he was saying all his bullshit about me.

The one thing that pisses me off the most about all of this, is that if it was just me on my own it would have been fine. I would have bought a new phone and not worried about it. I would have looked at the quad, my computer battery, and shrugged. But you can’t do that in my house. I can’t say how many times my dad has done something stupid with his phone. He’s left it on top of his car, lost it, dropped it in the lake…. And of course it is no big deal. I do it once and the world stops spinning to punish me for my simple little mistake. Gee, dad, so fucking sorry.

Over, done with, gone, I suppose.

There is no sympathy when one cannot feel.

I think it goes both ways. For one, I can’t sympathize much…at all. I might even venture to say that oftentimes I am not even capable. On the the other end of it, people don’t understand what numb means, what it can do to you. Even if I were to confess all of this people would have little to say to it, and likely would not fret. After all, how bad can it be to feel nothing at all?

 I’m falling lower and lower, but I’m not missing the fresh air; I’m not missing anything. All I can feel is this biting frustration that is a constant. I’m irritated that I can’t feel, annoyed that I have to compensate in other ways just to feel like there is any positive result from continuing to breathe. Sometimes I don’t want positive. Sometimes all I want is negative, and I’m starting to strongly dislike the coping mechanisms I’ve developed over the years. They grow progressively worse; again I am fighting extremes. One end for the other. Day after day. Switch over, switch back. Pick a side any side with nothing to lose and nothing to gain but momentary clarity that fades in an instant. And is it worth it, is it really?

I’ve been having nightmares again, then bouts of insomnia. It seems like every night I have to take something to sleep or I spend hours pacing in front of my television with my hands clasped behind my back trying to figure out what I’m doing and why, and most of all, how I feel about it. All I get is this blank spot. No reaction. No hopes and aspirations but the ones you’re not supposed to talk about. I did what I ‘wanted’, yet it has produced no glimmer of hope in my mind’s eye, no distant twinkling of a far off future that everyone else is planning for. The abyss remains black and unchanging. Sometimes I feel like it is a black hole taking everything away from me, that lack of a future. Yet for some reason I find myself not having any will to fight it. “Have it”, seems to be my only response. “Take it, because I don’t want it.”  

I’m still angry, and I’m glad. If I get to the point of not being able to get mad I really will go insane. There’s nothing like watching things that once disgusted you and smiling at them suddenly because they don’t mean anything, anything at all. It is the ultimate form of objectivity, as close as anyone would ever be able to get. Oh, but how it hurts. You don’t feel it then, but later…if tomorrow comes you wake up scarred. Wounds that time can never mend. They’ll bleed forever, a sick reminder of what you were doing yesterday so freely without the slightest restraint. 

I enjoy my apathy. I don’t know how, but I do. At the same time I think it is the worst burden I bear. Then the feelings come back and I remember just what a wreck I can really be, how small and weak and pathetic. If I must choose, then I take this a thousand times over. I take the not knowing, the blankness, the quiet in my head…. I take it without question.

I am grateful. I am not sorry.


I woke up numb. This happens sometimes. I feel almost medicated, as though sleep has robbed me of half my consciousness, as though it took with it the last few shreds of feeling. Everything doesn’t matter. Everything is so far from where I’m at in my head that it must not matter.

It usually takes me an hour to get out of bed on these kind of days.

I lay there, staring up at the ceiling or over at the door, wondering how many people in the world are awake at that moment thinking the precise thoughts I’m constantly tangled in. Get up, the voice commands. But I lazily roll onto my side and ignore it. This morning music was playing in my head—something I was listening to the night before.

I got up, ate what I consider to be breakfast, then got dressed. I was so out of it I didn’t even shower. I pulled my boots on, rebraided my hair, then went outside. Somehow the quad ended up out of the garage, and somehow I was driving. Aimlessly I drove, at first. I took the same path I always do, came around the bend and turned my head to the right to look at the train tracks. The haunting song from my sleep was playing in my ears, and every once in awhile I would come out of myself to hear it, a piece here, a piece there. Repeat, repeat. Over and over. I had the volume loud, but for the most part heard almost nothing of it. 

Then I drove. That’s when it started. That feeling in my gut.

Then I was searching, searching desperately for whatever it was that I wanted so badly. Faster and faster, to who knows where, for who knows what. I cut back and forth over roads, then onto years-old trails that were so overgrown I almost couldn’t pass through. I don’t know what I was doing, but before I knew it, when I looked down at the counter I realized I’d ‘wandered’ over 40 miles on my little excursion.

When I came to, I was more or less lost. I took photographs. A hawk was flying above me, circling, catching the updrafts and soaring higher and higher over the treetops. And there I was, the little ant climbing the mountainside. I wanted to the top, but the further I went the more the trails branched off into obscurity, the further I was from everything that was familiar to me. I found a logging road and followed for awhile, but turned back when it became apparent that it was only making the cancerous despair grow.


I wasn’t concerned that I was lost, that was what was strange. There was no twinge of fear at that thought. What bothered me was that I could not find it, whatever I was searching for. It wasn’t there. I took twenty trails and it wasn’t there.


And then that tune was playing, making my skin chill. Suddenly I decided I wanted to go home. My house isn’t a home, but it is where I’m grounded. Suddenly the treeline wasn’t so enchanting, the mountains and hills didn’t hold secrets at the top, but were instead obstacles to be overcome. I wanted to go back to where I came from, because it wasn’t right. It was all wrong.

I really don’t know how I got home. Physically, my body knew the way, somehow. I passed trail after trail and knew which one to take, though there were no signs of previous passage. The ground was hard and the tires weren’t leaving tracks in most places. But I didn’t have to look at the ground. I just went. It was surreal. Insane. How did I know? How could I have possibly known?

I don’t know what is happening to me. I don’t know if I want to know. It seems like everything inside of me is slowly failing. The puzzle has never fit together, and the more I try to force the pieces into place, into an understandable whole, the more ruined the fragments become. I am diseased, and it would seem that it is progressing more and more toward the point of no return. Eventually, my mind will fail. Maybe it will get lost between here and my world of fantasy. Or maybe it will get caught in that dream permanently.

It doesn’t belong here, that is all that I am sure of. I was not intended for this place.    

The haunting little melody:

It’s the main title theme from Resident Evil. I’ve always liked it, for whatever reason. I have no idea what the anime has to do with anything, but it was interesting. It fits with the music, come to think of it.

Oh don’t worry, it’s not your life!

This week has been terrible. I’ve been holding the anger in, making a pretty good attempt. But fuck it. It’s not like saying it aloud here, in the abyss of ‘anonymous’ internet is hurting anyone. The people who should be reading it—my parents—are about as likely to stumble on this as the spear of fucking destiny. But well, with my luck…let’s not even get into it.

I woke up on my day off (this was a couple of days ago) to find my parents trading car information back and forth. My mother is on her computer, my father on his. Apparently if I am registered with an older vehicle it cuts down our insurance payment by about a hundred dollars a month. So there they are, looking for a car. They didn’t even ask me. They’re talking about forking out some of whatever they’ve been saving, and I know that in the end I would have to produce something as well. Which is fine. I don’t care about the money. What I care about is when people make decisions for me, when I am legally considered an adult. Usually I am nonchalant about that kind of thing, so maybe that is why they thought it would be alright to start searching without telling me about it. But I don’t know…it made me furious. I may not have much of a life, or put forward much effort, but I think I still deserve to make a few choices in it. 

They had even called someone who was selling one of the cars. Without me.

Maybe I’m taking this too seriously. Maybe I’m being a stupid cunt about it, and I should get over it since they are being nice enough to even consider paying for part of it. But fuck, is it so much to ask that I be included from the beginning? I’ve talked a lot about getting an old car, for the purpose of having something that I wouldn’t have to worry about wrecking. But I’ve been working all of a month, so obviously, that is not at the top of my priorities right now, and probably never would be, because for one I don’t like to drive anyway. I was never all that serious about going through with it. At any time.

Then the other day, I was quading over in this area I wasn’t familiar with. I was about fifteen miles from my house, not a good place to get stuck in. The stupid thing was roaring and bogging down. It’s been doing this, even though the throttle was adjusted and it should be just fine. It has always had problems, so for the most part I ignore it when it acts up. Eventually, about halfway up the fucking mountain, I turned around and went back, because I could tell it was going to die. I did get it home, but only by gunning it the entire way to keep it from hesitating to the point of stalling.

Then I had left some money on the washing machine for gas—dad went and bought premium fuel with it. I can barely afford regular fuel, so now, instead of filling the gas canister in the garage all the way, it was only half full. All I do is use my ATV, really. There isn’t much else I do, so it kind of pissed me off. Yeah, I get that he wants them to run better, cleaner, but if it had been hismoney he would never have bought that fuel. He would have bought regular like he always does, otherwise I wouldn’t have had an issue with it. I’m trying to be lenient and show some trust and it just keeps blowing up in my face. I honestly couldn’t care less about the money, that’s what is so ridiculous. I’m not planning any future or doing anything with it. What angers me is that other people seem to think it is okay to do things without my permission. I’d like to have a fucking say in how my own life is run, thanks.

I guess it doesn’t matter. I’ve never shown an interest in deciding anything anyway, have I? So people assume I will continue to be the same way.

Those things are just a few in the long list of things that have gone wrong this week. I hope it lets up soon; I don’t have much tolerance to keep handling it all silently.