She told me to get the rant out. Say all things that you keep telling yourself over and over quietly. Half of them, you won’t even mean or believe. Then talk to her. My mom. That’s all I ever want to do is sit down and talk to her. Have a conversation. In the past five years I’ve cut, made myself throw up, started smoking pot, drinking excessively and ending up in the hospital. I don’t know what I am doing or even why. I am impulsive like my father.
No one knows. My sister calls me psycho, I forgive her. But maybe I am. The scariest thing about me is, I don’t know if I can control myself. My mom told me that she doesn’t think she could like the person I’ve become. I didn’t know I was a person until she said. I am just this cloud of thoughts and ideas floating in air. I stay late watch the sun come up and sleep. I would kill myself in broad day light.
It is just all too dense. I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know how to tell her, my mother. And as the words crawl to the tip of my tongue, they just seem so useless. Molested and sad about aÂ dad who left a long time ago. Too weak and stupid to look forward. This life, my education, my goals, my saving the world, is a fantasy. And so. Death. There’s no pain like mediocracy. Like failure. i don’tÂ want my brother to see that. I saw my sister do that. I saw my cousins do that. And it hurts.
I would rather: stop putting my mother in debt for scum like me. I can’t hold my tongue, and I have nothing especially brilliant to say. My sense of independence is garbage, raped by this economic system. No. I don’t want to be that shame. If I grow to be my father..No. I can’t take that chance. I can’t keep ruining my mother and brother’s life with my failed attempt at “being someone”. I know. There are so many years in my life. Who knows what’s going to happen.
But you feel it. The world. The little inkling in the back your mind. Your family. They are all telling you that your’e a psycho, you’re a monster. And that you can’t help it, it’s nature. Your trivial wounds from childhood have festered into unpredictable rage, loneliness, and the only way out is death. No one knows. I don’t say anything because, I don’t want people to think it’s because I’m crazy. It’s about logic and practicality. It’s not about me. I can’t regret life if I’m dead.