24

Maybe if I cared I’d make some attempt to pick up the pieces. Mostly I’m just angry and confused. I don’t want to go to work, and honestly, the only alternative that goes through my head is blowing it off. Wrapping a towel around my head and pulling the trigger. But then I think about who’d find me (my mother) and it makes me hesitant. A woman at work has walked in on two family members through the course of her life. Both with self-inflicted gunshot wounds. She tells me she’ll never get over it. I don’t want that to be the last memory she has of me, but I’m also tired of restraining myself when it comes to this. I’ve almost overdosed a few times, late at night, when I’m all alone. What do you do, really? How am I supposed to handle these thoughts in any way besides the way that was intended?

I’m not living for much of anything, maybe just out of habit. And loving someone else hasn’t changed anything—yet another thing I suspected and came true. Even being held and talked to changed nothing, because at night I’d wake up and get out of bed, and sit in the bathroom trying to rock myself to sleep. Maybe it all means nothing, because whatever monster was there is still there and isn’t going to let go anytime soon. I feel like I’m so damaged that nothing can be done for me anymore. I think even if I had constant attention I’d grow weary of it until I’d forsake it completely. I could be lying; I’m not sure anymore. Maybe it’s just being left behind that makes me bitter.

I don’t want to go to work. All I think of is hurting myself, if only to avoid work, to avoid life, to avoid having to do any of this anymore. I’m living for everyone else and it’s not enough, and it won’t ever be enough. I’m not sure where I plan on going with this, only that I’m afraid. What if I fail, and I live? Can I deal with that? Would I be strong enough to finish what I started?

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A Place Like Forever

Sometimes I wake up confused. It’s dark, and I panic, thinking I’m late for work. Then I relax and fantasize briefly about calling in sick.

I hate my job. There’s no question about it. I am doing the exact last thing I ever wanted to do. I feel backed into a wall, and like any good animal, lashing out is becoming more and more frequent, whether it’s damage inflicted on myself, or others. Mostly I just seem to get bitter and curt, to the point where people ask me if I’m in a bad mood. What, you think? Really? I’m in a bad mood?

I don’t know how it could be anymore obvious that I’m on the very brink of what it is to be living, if you can even call this living. This is barely an existence at all. I don’t feel cheated, but ashamed, ashamed this is all I am and all I will ever be. I’m too weak, too crushed by expectations to budge and too much of a coward to face what’s coming for me. Every inaction on my part comes as a slap to the face, and I feel as though I am dragged through this whole ordeal, with no choices and no hope. I don’t care enough to change, and I don’t believe enough to keep going on.

I’m in physical pain from taking on too much and suffering mentally from enduring everything else. Let’s take someone who is socially insecure and put her in a job where all she does is communicate with people all day. Let’s have her take money at a register even though she feels too fucking incompetent to so much as count someone’s change. I’m deathly afraid I’m doing everything wrong. I hear myself over the speaker, echoing back and I cringe. I spend 6-9 hours in an absolute hell, where the only thing I can do is dig my nails into my palms, and rush into the back room before anyone sees that I am so uncomfortable I am on the verge of sobbing. I can barely take it. But I don’t know what else to do. The only way I will get out of this place is by rising above it. I’m an uneducated young person with no experience and no connections. I don’t even drive myself to work. The best I can expect to get is the position I’m being trained for. I fuck that up and I have to start all over. And fuck, starting over isn’t a goddamned option for me. I can’t. I won’t.

  What does it matter? It’s all over anyway.

A finale chaotic.

I don’t know if anything really matters when you don’t care. It’s so difficult to express how I feel. I just can’t get out of this. I’m not sure if it’s something that happened to me or if it was always there waiting for me. Maybe it was all dormant for a time, blocked out by so many people, so many faces. Fuck, I know I felt it, at sometime, to some degree.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me anymore. I’m not going to call it depression or tag it with any other ridiculous term that has been tainted and abused by weak-minded, worthless human beings. Whatever they have isn’t what I have. This is forever, as long as I live. This hasn’t just lasted a month or two months, or even six months. It’s been motherfucking years. Years. So many I’m losing count. I’m not going to pretend anymore that it’s going to clear up and disappear so I can be ‘normal’ again. There isn’t a normal like they have, not for me. It’s over, it’s been over, and I am so tired of waiting for something terrible to happen to me.

Nothing saves you. You are all alone, even if someone holds you while you cry. And maybe that is the saddest fucking thing. Maybe that’s the thing that makes me lose all hope.