Nice Guys Finish Last

I don’t even know where to begin. I’ve never been good at opening up to people, never really had any close friends who I can actually trust to tell this to. My parents, pshh I’d have more luck venting to my dog. So excuse me if I seem nervous.

I’m turning 24 in 4 days. A lot has happened to me in these 23 years of life. Not a lot of them good. And the worst things have happened within the last year.

I wish I was a kid again. Being a kid is so damn easy. You have not a single care in the world, other than being the first picked at kickball. Even if you don’t like school, you aren’t scared to go through the entrance. Having a girlfriend meant you held hands with a girl in the back of the bus. The only girl you kissed was your mom. Your friends never changed on you. Nobody spread nasty rumors. Your life is filled with games of tag outside, episodes of Spongebob, asking your mom if she can order pizza instead of eating your veggies. The hardest tasks were learning to read, or how to ride your back, or figuring out what 7×6  is on a math quiz.

Now, even at 23, it’s hard to believe that I was a child at one point. I look at myself in the mirror and can’t even remember how that black eye got there (telling a joke to a girl you don’t know at lunch and getting knocked out because the football quarterback is dating her). You don’t know if you even have a heart anymore (the girlfriends who cheated, the parents who lied, the friends who betrayed, the relatives that left). You can’t feel anything (your mom tells you she’d rather see you dead than a part of the family). Your eyes are so puffed and red from crying, you can’t even see without something being blurry (remembering your only true friend who shot himself in the bathroom while you were at his house sleeping over). Can’t even believe in a God (watching your grandfather die from cancer).

The one good thing that happened to me, my best friend, took his own life because of bullying and harassment. The one person I could tell anything to, before problems started escalating, left without even saying goodbye.

I can’t explain how I feel. I can’t explain how much I’ve lost touch with reality. How living has become synonomous with just existing. And then questioning if you want to do that anymore. Wondering if you died tonight, who would care. Who would cry, laugh, try and make some dark humor joke. Who wouldn’t even care. Who would be glad you’re buried six feet below the ground. Who would regret the things they said. Who would show up to your funeral, say a few words, cry when they watched your coffin lowered into the mundane Earth from whence you came, forever dark. Forever black. Forever alone. Just like you started.

What am I? I’m a nice guy who finished dead last in every race imaginable. And I’m considering erasing my name from the scorecard.