If I’m to be honest and all that, then I would say that I really don’t understand myself. I can’t say why I am this way; sure, I can guess, but it means very little when questions continue to go unanswered. What I do know is that I’m acting a lot more helpless than I am. Help is right there—I could say something to someone and maybe change things. It may not have worked with my parents, but it might with someone else, particularly a doctor.
I went to the doctor, I went to the doctor and lied to her face. And I got away with it, just like I always do, by avoiding, lying, and manipulating. People are so fucking easy, that sometimes when I lie it feels positively effortless. I don’t know if that is a talent or if it just makes me even more of a disgusting individual. It’s ‘bad’, certainly, but it is a means to an end, which is all I’ve ever wanted.
But my desire for help is not there. It’s as though I am somehow content to go on being miserable, as though I am standing here with an otherwise endless selection of options, yet time and time again making the wrong choice. I don’t seem to want to get better. I’m in love with my own pain, maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard for me to see my own motives when my emotions are so dulled. Am I waiting to become fed up, so that I will do something to myself? Or am I simply the sort of person that wants to stand back and let things burn for awhile before deciding to put out all the fires? I really don’t know, and I feel stupid for asking.
I should know, shouldn’t I? I should know why every day I throw this life away, emotionlessly. It is as meaningful to me as a disposable cup I toss into the garbage. I feel like I spend every second of my life trying to forget about my life. I’m always reading and daydreaming, trying to escape from this, trying to be free of this prison. I don’t like who I am, yet I would never try to be anyone else. I hate my unhappiness but I would not try for something better. Just looking at it that way makes it clear that there is no sense to this.
I’m nothing but a shadow of a person, content to be fleeting and unreal. And like all shadows, in the darkest of darkness, I am embraced and disappear. Someday I suspect that there will be no lines to seperate me from my evil; those last few struggling bonds of morality and sanity will be lifted. There will be nothing but fathomless black, numbness and emptiness and wholeness at the same time. Perhaps then I won’t feel like such a contradiction. Perhaps then I will never wish for happiness or the company of others again.
Ah, but that can’t be true, can it? Sounds too much like a dream.