I think that I have officially given up on everything. I just don’t care anymore. I really don’t. I’m stuck inside a prison I created for myself. No one understands what it’s like inside there and they never will. I’m sick of relying on other people to keep me afloat. All it does is prove I’m weak and can’t do anything for myself. I’m nothing. I’m just taking up space in the world with my pointless to desire to exist. I don’t belong here and I never did. There is no meaning. All those times I spent searching for the reasons, and I’ve come to the conclusion that there are no reasons. I have no purpose. And there will never be answers. I’m selfish and needy and self absorbed. I expect people to drop their own lives and their own problems and cater to me. I hate that I’m like that. I don’t want that to be me anymore. I’m tired of the self pity. I’m tired of everything.
I’ll never be the person everyone already seems to think I am. That person is gone. I don’t think he ever existed in the first place. He was just a figment of my imagination. Life goes on all around me, and I just sit and watch it. I don’t want to be a part of it. I don’t want to drag any more people down with me. I don’t want to exist solely to be a burden on everyone around me. But I know that’s what I am. It’s all I ever was. And it’s all I can ever be. I thought for awhile that I had a real chance at a normal life. That I could actually become the person everyone else thought I was. But I can’t. It’s too hard.
And no one is ever going to understand any of it. I just want to disappear. I wish I never existed at all. I just want it to all be over with. I quit. I don’t want to try anymore. I just want to fall asleep and never wake up. Maybe that might hurt some people but how can it hurt them more than I already do? Every single day I exist I hurt everyone with my own pain. It’s all I can talk about. It’s all I care about. I’m relentless in my desire to spew my crap to the world as if they actually give a shit. But who wants to keep hearing it? I certainly don’t.
I’m sick of being the person people whisper about. I know they do. I know they look at me and see a person who needs to be ‘handled carefully’. He’s ‘special’. He’s ‘different’. He needs extra attention and care, so be gentle with him. Fuck that. Fuck being the one everyone handles with kid gloves because I’m so fucking pathetic they’re afraid to break me. It’s not that hard to do. Look at me wrong and I’ll break. And don’t think I don’t know what the world thinks of people like that. If another well meaning person tells me to grow the fuck up and get a backbone, I’ll scream. Do you think I haven’t tried that? Do you think I like being this way?
I’m tired of people who don’t even know me making assumptions about me too. I’m just plain fucking tired of people in general. Especially the ones who pretend to be supportive and nice and then turn out to be wolves in disguise. And I know they’re snickering at me behind my back, just like everyone else. Talking about how I need to toughen up and stop taking things so seriously. Fuck them. I wish for them that they had to live inside my head for a week. Then maybe they’d understand. Maybe they’d get the pain I live with. Maybe they’d understand that there is no escape from what I am. Or who I am.
And I know that even the people who do honestly care about me, talk about me behind my back. They feel helpless. They feel confused. They don’t get what’s really wrong with me. And how could they? But that’s why I just want to spare them. They feel helpless against who I am and my very existence is nothing but heartbreaking for them. How can I live with that knowledge? Every single day I’m surrounded by people who either ridicule me or feel sorry for me. Every time I see someone the first thing they ask is, are you okay today? How’re you doing? Is it a good day or a bad day? Do you want to talk about anything? And I know they all mean well, but my fucking God, I feel like an idiot all the time.
I wish no one knew about my illness at all. I wish I had died all those years ago when I took too many pills. I didn’t try to die that night, but I wasn’t exactly trying to live either. I didn’t care. And I remember when the realization hit me that I was probably going to die, I was okay with that. It felt good. It felt like a relief. And instead of being happy that I pulled through and survived the ordeal, I was disappointed. That’s not something I’ve ever really told anyone or even admitted to myself. But that’s how I felt. I was disappointed.
But I kept thinking there had to be a reason I was still here. There must be a purpose for me that I didn’t know about yet. And that kept me going. It made me want to try harder. It made me want to work really hard to be something else other than what I was, just so I could see where life would take me. But now I see that there is nothing at the end of the road. I have everything I ever I thought I wanted, but it’s not good enough. I’m still broken and empty. I’m still hollow. I’m still a mess. I’m still nothing.
And that’s all I’m ever going to be. Nothing.
But at least I know this now. I don’t have to try anymore because there is no point. This is me. It doesn’t get any better than this. It never will. And right now I feel like just crawling into a cave and staying there forever. If no can see me, they can’t hurt me. And I can’t hurt them either.
