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Don’t even know where to begin

by empbac

Was going to post this last night but got drunk and distracted…

My parents got divorced when I was 7. Both are fantasy-prone, overweight, and hoarders. I was bullied when I was in school. A lot. That’s hard for me to admit because I feel like I’m supposed to be strong. I never wanted my family or friends to know… the few I had. I thought they’d reject me too. I’ve alienated most of my friends now, even the ones that were always nice to me. Maybe I never wanted them to find out what I really am. I’m weak. I’m a loser. I’m dumb and unattractive and selfish and a low achiever. I don’t have much in the way of social skills. No charisma. All my positive social interactions are fake. None of it is felt, nothing comes from within. I can’t connect with anyone on a deep level because I’m always in my head, alone, and I don’t want anyone to know it. It’s not normal, after all. My father is the same way; he’s an utter failure in every aspect of life. He doesn’t even bathe. I still bathe… for now. But I’m afraid that if I keep going I’ll end up just like him. I don’t talk to my mother anymore because she’s practically insane, always in a religious fantasy world. I dumped religion in favor of reality and have since discovered that reality is very cruel and heartless. I don’t regret becoming a skeptic, because I think it’s more important to know the truth than be happy… but the truth can still be very dissatisfying.

I used to be a happy kid. Though, I think I just pretended to be because that’s what I thought I was supposed to be. I have a hard time connecting with others. I see that they’re more concerned with their own lives, and why shouldn’t they be? I can’t hold that against them; though I get a little pissed off when it’s clear that no one gives a shit about me. So many years ago I decided to stop sharing, stop showing that anything was wrong with me. What would be the point? My sister is the only person I’ve ever really cared about, and whose opinion mattered, and today she expressed how disappointed she is in me. She can’t understand why I’m not normal, why I can’t socialize with her friends and chase a solid career. It’s like I have no control over my life, no self-discipline, no motivation, just doing what I thought would make her happy, and I can’t even do that very well. But nothing is good enough, and it’s too late to change who I am. I’ll be 28 tomorrow. I’d like to end it right now. I should have ended it when I was 15. One night I was laying in bed with an axe held over my head, wanting to bury it in my skull, crying. But I was too much of a *****. I thought, “what if things get better?” But things don’t get better for me. They get worse, and more ironic. I also thought it might glance off my skull and only land me in the hospital or a mental institution. No one has ever really loved me. I’ve had sex twice, once when I was a teenager and once with a stripper who I paid while I was in the Army. The truth is, no woman wants me. I don’t flirt because I know I have nothing to offer, and at this point I don’t even think I know how. So here I am, always alone and unable to reach out. There’s nothing else to do but breathe, so why bother.

I have no real confidence. No self-appreciation or self-worth. I’ve been becoming an asshole for the past couple years because that’s all people seem to pay attention to. But I hate myself for it. The older I get the more anti-social I become. I’m afraid of getting close to people because I’m afraid they’ll hurt me and that I’ll hurt them. I’ve tried to not be like my parents. I’m not a hoarder; I’m neat. I lost a bunch of weight and exercise regularly now, while controlling my diet, but that makes no difference to how I feel emotionally. I may be in shape physically, but not emotionally.

I spent some time in a mental institution when I was 15-16, when I didn’t yet realize how to hide my self-loathing. The only thing I learned from that is that if I tell anyone how I really feel, my freedom will be taken from me and I’ll no longer have the option of suicide. That’s not what I want. I want control over my own life. And if I can’t have that, then control over my own death is good enough. As far as anyone knows now, I have no feelings, at least not that I’m willing to express. And I’m sure everyone thinks that’s really weird. But how can they understand? What could they do? They’re at least as powerless as I am. I saw a psychiatrist and a counselor for several months last year. When I showed up I wanted to share how I really felt, but I didn’t let on much. I mostly pretended I was normal, and they bought it. I just couldn’t help but lie. I was afraid of what would happen if I didn’t.

I can’t kill myself — not yet. But I’ve always known that I one day will. I need to wait for my father to die. I need to wait for my sister to be in a stable position so she can handle it. I need to get rid of all my things and move out of this place, hopefully leaving a little cash behind. When the time is right I’ll drink a 40 of whiskey, take a full bottle of ibuprofen, plus some oxycodone, and also shoot myself in the head with a shotgun or crossbow — whichever I get a hold of first. (I have my 12GA shotgun stashed in a house where I lived before and I can order a crossbow online.) In case one method fails, the other should work. Hell, maybe I’ll do it on the edge of a cliff or bridge so that I also fall. I don’t plan on failing. Maybe suicide is the only thing I’ve ever really been motivated to get right the first time around — I’ve been going back and forth on this question since I was about 14 and have had time to plan it. It’s hard to focus on going to school and having a career — or dating and getting a girlfriend — when I’m constantly thinking about how much I hate myself. Sometimes I stare into the mirror and repeat, “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” over and over again. How productive of me…

I’m studying for a computer certification now, so I can make a little money… but my heart isn’t in it. I do it because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Really, I’m just waiting. Waiting for the time to be right. Life hurts and I want it to stop. Tonight I drank a bunch of liquor and punched myself in the head repeatedly — fairly hard, actually. I somehow feel better after killing brain cells. I’m not violent toward anyone except myself, and I never want to get to the point where I could physically hurt anyone. I keep thinking I need to wait, but at the same time I think, ‘If I’m going to do it, why not just do it now? It isn’t getting any easier.’ The cognitive dissonance is killing me. I keep hoping I’ll crash into a telephone pole on the highway and die. But it doesn’t happen. What a tragedy. The only thing that regularly releases any of this anguish is playing some piano… but I’m not even that good at it. I wish I were, so that I could do nothing else and pass my life away thus, but I doubt it will ever happen, so there’s no point in wishing for it.

I’m sorry that these sentences and paragraphs aren’t arranged in any kind of order, but that’s how I feel in my head; without order or purpose. Even as I wrote this, I occasionally thought, “how can I phrase this to make myself look better than I am?” In the end, I’m not better than I think I am. I’m honest enough to admit that. Honesty is one of the few good points I have, when I’m comfortable enough to express it, when I know I won’t be thrown in a hospital because of it. This is the real me: desperate, frustrated, alone, without hope. So, here’s to life… and death. Cheers.

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