I am 18 years old and 6’2″, yet I don’t think anyone will ever see me as anything other than a child. It’s gotten to the point that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to see myself as an actual adult. I feel completely powerless. I am sick of people condescending to me. I am sick of thinking that I deserve it. The helplessness makes me want to scream my lungs dead, scratch at the walls of my room until my fingernails fall off, claw at my eyes until they bleed. I feel like the only way I can prove some semblance of power to anyone–even myself–is to blow my brains out. Make everyone scream and vomit when they see my red insides. That’s the only thing I could ever make them do. I do not want to do it so people will feel bad for me.Â I want to remind the whole world that they, too, are nothing but decaying garbage.
If I could give any piece of advice to future generations, it is this: be a douchebag. Take whatever you can whenever you can. Trample over anyone who will let you. Anyone is a victim who will let you treat them as such. Assholes rule the world from the day they’re born to the day they die. Kindness gets you nowhere. I should know; I’ve been trying it for 18 years now. I’ll be trying it until the day I die, only because I don’t know how to do anything else. I have always considered myself to be kind, gentle, and very soft-spoken, and it has brought me nothing but feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing.
It used to not bother me so much, this past year or so. I’ve had thoughts of suicide since adolescence; I’ve even been hospitalized for it once several years ago. But recently, somewhere out of the directionless void I’d been living in throughout my teenage years, I decided that I wanted to be a writer. People have always told me that I’m a good writer, and it felt wonderful to have a purpose in life. I started reading and writing feverishly in preparation. I have never expected much from my life–I am not one of those fortunate few lucky enough to have been born attractive and extroverted–but it would all seem worthwhile if I could just realize my dream of writing a book. Just that goal was enough to keep me away from suicidal thoughts. But it didn’t take long before the ever-present fear of inadequacy made me question that, too. I worry that I’ll spend my life so paralyzed by my fear of failure that I’ll never end up doing anything at all. It’s just that this is not the right world for living on noble impulses. It’s hard to hang on to real dreams in such a predatory place. I find it both amazing and disgusting how easily people can distort and ruin your hopes.
At the heart of it all is that constant sense of helplessness. I’ve never been masculine enough. I shouldn’t have been born a boy. I shouldn’t have been born at all. It’s always a nice comfort to tell myself that I am in charge of my own future and I don’t need anyone else but myself to validate my own identity, but I can’t escape the feeling that my whole life is lying prostrate against the whims of others. Suicide seems like the only way to break free. I don’t care if I’m dead (I don’t believe in an afterlife), it’s better than being powerless. Sartre was right, hell is other people.
Anyways, sorry if that was a bit jumbled; I’m just kind of ranting. If anyone else feels like this, please tell me about it. I would love to hear your stories. Thank you all very much for reading. It means a lot to me to know that somebody cares enough to listen.