I’m a loser. The truth of this fact hit me today, when I was going back to work after a particularly brutal sparring session. My head was hurting as usual. Brain damage is a *****, and I try to say I don’t fear it, but I do. Because I’ve spent 21 years of my life on my brain, when I should have been spending it on my soul. My brain is my moneymaker. What a petty thing to hang onto, and yet I do, because the world scares me. Because I want some sort of safety net even though the only safety net is a bullet through my skull.
But I digress — the point is, I’m a loser. I never realized it really, but after my relationship with S ended, after I gave up working hard and bailed on the tough life to make money, I became a loser. I lost to myself — I told myself I couldn’t do it without her, and I quit. I let it go, and I started doing easy things. Hard things, in a different way. I had to interact with reality instead of doing academics in an ivory tower. That was a hard thing to do. But I gave up on studying, on strengthening my mind and seeing how far I could go. I gave up, because I accepted defeat. I admitted that I had lost.
That was a bad decision, coming from a place of fear. The question is, what now? Normally in a story when a person loses, either there’s some dramatic comeback, or the story ends. For me, there’s obviously no dramatic comeback, but yet my story drags on like some really bad piece of literature where the author just doesn’t know when to end it. Maybe that’s the biggest sign that I should end it all. Because my story is over. It was a good run, and now it’s done.
What is there to hope for? I don’t believe in myself. I don’t believe I have what it takes, to do anything.