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Pathetic

by an_actual_leg

I have a bully. And they’re really f#%kin mean.

My bully wants me dead.

My bully is called me.

I vaguely remember feeling alive. Like things were actually happening. Things mattered, I thought things through, but then one day somewhere my mind woke up. “Oh f@$k I can think”. It was all downhill from there. I deteriorated slowly at first. Little realizations. “This doesn’t feel right.” “I was only 8”. Minutes and hours with my mind consumed by the things that went wrong before. Dwelling on the trauma that I didn’t understand until the beginning of The Collapse. The doctor says I need pills. We’ll try Dexmethylphenidate, we’ll try adderall. Whatever it takes to get this miserable kid to focus. But the medicine doesn’t control what I focus on. I become fascinated by the smallest distractions. My attention enamored by a twinge under my skin when I move my thumb at a 12° angle. The slightest negative thought sends me spiraling. Staring at the wall. “I hate you. I hate you. Die. Useless. Worthless. Garbage.” Morphing into “you should have stopped him you useles f¿»k. You just watched.” Blades running across my skin. 5 the first time. 15 the next. A downward spiral steadily following along the pages of The Collapse. Escape. I need escape. Run away to Germany for a year at 16. Forced to come back. School is «So Important». “My cousin abused me.” “The neighbor raped Em and I”. Words I finally can speak. But the words are stamped down and tossed into the waste basket by those who are supposed to love me no matter what.  My livelihood morphs into a gray. A mistiness   befalls my once so adventurous eyes. Everything is silver and nothing matters. Get a job. Quit it three weeks later. Cry all the time? Whatever. Nothing has a purpose. Certainly not me. Even if I did what does it matter if I have no reason for myself to get up in the morning. Run away again the second I turned 18. The Collapse is a cliff. I know it’s started but I’m on a downhill slope towards the waterfall. The inevitable. 3 attempts. Can’t even kill my bully right. “Let’s get you a therapist.” Oh no you forget to find me one for the 13th time. I’m so surprised. What can a therapist do anyway. Turn back time? How funny. Do you know how hard it is to find a job where you’re respected despite the fact you were born in the wrong body? It’s near impossible. Why was I born? To even out any happiness that may have been let loose into the world. My miserable being is to fulfill a suicide statistic. Maybe not today. Maybe tomorrow? I’ll find a good day. Things are muddled. My pages glued together. A great Shakespearean tragedy so thick it’s not even worth writing out anymore. All that I love is far. I am friendless. Disgusting in the eyes of the world. An abomination. Poetic. Whatever. Gone.

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Wanderlustbudz 9/23/2019 - 5:15 am

Could this be any more familiar? No even the way you wrote it is familiar…
I love the way you write, I hope you write more in your daily life…
I don’t find enjoyment in your torment but empathize, especially because of how well you were about to express yourself…
Please don’t give up.
I know it’s a matter of fighting the other voice that speaks more loudly every single day… I can’t find a single thing that has changed my perspective aside from support, which is often run off by me. I would say it’s my anxiety, or my depression, or my PTSD, but it’s all just a part of me that I want to drown. I’m too heavy for others.
I’m too heavy for me too, but they didn’t get the memo.
Often times I just try to express myself as you did here, which is just reality for us, and sometimes I just need someone to hear me and just tell me: I hear you and I’m sorry things are like this.
I wish I could make it all stop.
I’m here if you want to talk?

an_actual_leg 9/23/2019 - 9:41 am

I hear you. I’m sorry things are like this. I used to love to write. I used to be so colorful. Taught myself to play music and read it, to write up these interesting characters and these adventurous lives for them. But when The Collapse started everything became numb. My passion, my creativity drained and dried up leaving nothing but scum. I used to come to sites like this to yell into the void. To talk about all my problems. Put them into the world and hope somebody would swoop in and save me from myself. I’m not convinced that’s something I genuinely wanted. My best friend tried to. Told my parents about the blades. It made me angry. Him trying to take away the one thing I had that made it feel a little better. My parents didn’t even do anything because I faked a smile a little bit harder than before. Falsified cheeriness. *it actually worked*. But now writing out all of the problems or even trying to bring them up has become simply too overwhelming. Doesn’t even seem worth it. Dumping myself out like a puzzle to try and solve it for the thousandth time when all of the pieces aren’t even there. The Collapse has brought the sorry state of the world to my attention, forced it to infect my brains and swim through my blood, forbidding any glimmers of hope of happiness. But I’m just going on a tangent. I’m here if you need to talk as well. Strangers on the internet can be so kind sometimes.

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