Wish I was normal…

Normal people dont sabotage themselves when they’ve worked so hard to accomplish something because they made a simple mistake and believe they dont deserve any success. They’re not afraid to make new friends because they know they will eventually take off their mask and use those friends up. Normal people dont worry about being alone. They dont care that they are not going to be remembered, or that they wont do anything great. No, normal people are perfectly content with being who they are…
I’m scared of myself. For most of my life: I was very angry at myself. I’d have to build myself into a rage to start cutting. I became very good at finding the most hurtful things to say about/to myself. Now, I’m just stoic, numb. I dont cut anymore: I suppose that’s progress by some standard. I cant help but think that I’m building myself up for some huge thing though. I bought a house, have good credit, a nice car, good job. I’m supposed to be happy with that. I had a few productive hobbies, but I sorta stopped doing them because they were artistic, and art is pretty pointless. Unless it can make money. But I’ll never make any significant money from it on account of not being very good. Seriously: nobody gives a fuck about woodburnings or poetry…
On the other hand, I dont really care enough to kill myself right now. I’m not sure why. I dont really have any good reasons not to. My wife, I guess. She had a hard time coping with our son’s death (natural causes), but that was over a year ago, and she’s doing better now. Anything left from my father’s inheritance would be hers and that’d help cope, I’m sure. It’s not alot, but enough to get through I guess. My kids (the living ones, obviously) would be okay: one only met me a year ago, and the other would adjust. I’m completely replaceable at work, the few friends I have would be okay after a week or two of grief, if they even knew what happened. But this is’nt about them…
I have the means now. I guess I did before, but I’m not really a pill-popper. Dying from OD is nasty and there’s no glory in that. Maybe glory aint the right word, but you’ll just have to tolerate me not finding a better one. I got a gun. Fast. That’s prolly how I would if I’m ever gonna. But I dont think I’ll ever have the courage. Supposedly, it’s more courageous to live: but I’m too smart to be manipulated by inspirational shit regurgitated from counselor office posters. I’m also a little too smart to buy the whole religion thing. I mean sure: science has proven (as well as it can at this point) that The Universe is made of infinite potential, and as such: every version of every god must exist. But the idea of an afterlife? Eternal Hell, or a Heaven with angels watching over us, or reincarnation, or akashic records, etc… C’mon man, I’m a fuckin’ grown-up: I dont have time for these fairy tales. And thus: religion is no reason to stick around…
I guess maybe I’m curious about what will happen tomorrow. But I know what’s gonna happen tomorrow: I’m gonna go to work, work hard yet not hard enough, fake being happy with some work friends and maybe even forget how much I want to stop hurting for a little bit. I’ll come home and smoke a couple bowls, talk to the cats or myself. And eventually realize that I’m pretending again. Pretending to be someone important or influential. Pretending to have the ability to change the world in some way. I’ll play a few video games where I’m an important person. Then I’ll likely watch youtube untill I’m too tired to stay awake thinking about how much I have disappointed myself and those I love. Of course, my wife and mom say I’m not a disappointment, but that’s exactly what I’d expect them to say. I’d guess my kids would say the same, but I dont think a parent should discuss that kinda shit with their kids. Better for them to be surprised by a suicide if it’s gonna happen, I guess.
*Yes, I refer to myself often. I’m some kind of narcisist, That’s one of the things wrong with me.*
Anyways: going full-circle… I’ve used up so many people in my life with this stupid depression thing. I’m afraid to get close to new friends because I know how I can be. I’ll eventually become comfortable enough around them to not fake it on a bad day. The first few times, they will be supportive. But after a while, it becomes a sorta “not this again” thing. And then they go away, or I remove myself from them. Or the relationship becomes kinda hollow and undefined, like my marriage has. Perfect example: A couple months ago at work, I started hanging out with a group of other department managers on lunch and breaks, playing hackey sack (which I found out I truly enjoy). They’re weird and loud and funny just like me. And they’re good people. Now, I’m kinda both an intra- and extrovert at the same time. I’m not gonna explain that: I assume alot of you who’ve cared enough to read this far understand what I mean. I tend to find or bring together small groups of people who I feel more-or-less comfortable with, but I’m not very out-going. I guess I did just explain that after all. Anyways: I told myself “R***, dont fuck this up. These people like you.” Well, sure enough: I shared my poems with one (they were well-received, which kinda makes me worry about her lol), and over time, I let a little bit slip about my past (abusive childhood, habits, some of my criminal endeavors in the past, little shit). And grumblings about bad days. That’s where it starts to slip. My job is very important to me. So if I’m not doing a good job, it directly reflects upon my value as a person. I guess when I put it in black-and-white like that it seems kinda stupid. But it is what it is, I guess. I can see the irritation and I really want to shut it down: just shut up and be normal. But I cant, because I’m not…
I’m not exactly sure what is wrong with me. I reckon I just have run-of-the-mill depression. Which would fit, seeing as how I am prone to acting like I’m something special when in fact I’m just broken in a very typical way. I’ve considered going to a therapist, but I have no interest in sharing my most secret feelings with a complete stranger I have to pay to listen to them. (Yes, I see the irony, in that I’m writing a book to a bunch of strangers who have no obligation to give a fuck, either.) I also have no interest in having to take a pill that makes me able to stand myself (again: I see the irony). I knida feel like if a person cant stand on their own 2 feet, then they deserve to fall. But if I really felt that way: why do I keep emotionally wiping myself on the people who think they enjoy being around me?
I think I’m done whining to strangers now. I dont really know how to finish this, so I guess I’ll just do it abruptly. Thank you for reading.