I just spent the last 45 minutes dribbling this stream of consciousness out of the arse-end of my brain. Chances are, I'll regret posting this, and even more likely, I'll get a craptonne of people worried for my sake, but hey. The moral of the story below is: if I don't do something now, I'll never do anything, ever. Take solace, at any rate, at the fact that I'm passing this off as fiction.
Small note: there's a bit of slightly sweary language in there, but it shouldn't offend anyone who isn't really, really easily offended by specific combinations of letters.
Enjoy, if you want. Or don't. It's 3.40 in the morning; do you really think I care at this point?
~I Can't See The Light~
I can't sleep. It's nearly 3AM, and I can't sleep. The Summer heat is stifling, yes, but that's not the problem. My electric fan is on, and it's somewhat noisy, but that's not the problem, either. No, indeed. As usual, the problem is nothing else, no-one else, but me. As usual, I'm the problem. But then again, when even I hate me, that shouldn't come as a surprise in the slightest.
Now, I've never been the most social person in the world, but I'm by no means friendless, even though I did spend my youth as the only academic child in several different classes of council-estate yobs who were neither willing nor capable when it came to learning. In that regard, I've always been a black sheep. I spent my youth travelling, too. Since my father was always being headhunted for one job, then chasing after another, in order to be paid as well as possible, so our family could live as happily as possible, we've had to move from pillar to post and back again, time and again. So, region-wise, I've also always been an outcast. Not that you're here to read about my life story. And I don't blame you. It's not worth giving a fuck about.
The point I'm driving at, here, is that, while I'm not perfect, I'm in a pretty good position. I'm clever, I'm precocious and I'm not that one irritating, self-important, self-righteous bastard that nobody likes, while also not being that weird loner kid that everyone avoids. As it were, I'm a cannonball in a weapon primed for success.
A cannonball that believes himself to be made of glass.
The bottom line is-- since I still haven't reached the point of what I'm saying; a crime for which I already feel deserves significant punishment for wasting your time-- for no observable reason, I utterly and truly detest myself. The idea of 'me' disgusts me. I hate myself. There, I said it.
Because of this, I often wonder if I'd be better off dead. I mean, there are seven-billion other people on this planet; what makes this one life here so special? That train of thought will inevitable lead to contemplations of suicide. Have I tried it? Maybe. Perhaps I did once, and never will again, because it didn't work and I now subconsciously believe that suicide will never work and is therefore not a viable 'way out'. Perhaps I never have, because, as with almost everything else that isn't handed to me, I wouldn't have the balls to even try. Whether I tried or not, I still feel a criminal for even thinking of it.
Thinking of it at all is up there in my catalogue of mistakes that I cannot forget. Even small, trivial things from many, many years ago still haunt me. Little things.
Stupid things. They plague me. So perhaps you can imagine quite how the bigger, more significant things affect me. I'd go into detail, but I imagine that you wouldn't care. The way I feel, you deserve some kind of award for getting this far through this block of solid drivel.
Yes, it hurts, but it's my pain. And my pain is trivial. My feelings are not required viewing. As a person, I'm optional. Not even an extra in the film of life, whose cast exceeds the eleventh power in total. So then, I wonder, what if I were to just...disappear?
Sorry, no. I've thought of that, too. I do, at times, fantasise about what my life could be like if I just decided to, one day, leave. How much happier I could be if I could just forget everything I am. I get to taste that much, sometimes, when I wake up in the morning. There are a few fleeting seconds between my dreams and reality in which I know nothing about this body, this worthless existence, that my spirit occupies.
And then there are the dreams themselves. They remind me, beyond any doubt, that I can't just disappear. Oftentimes, I dream that I'm running away. Not from a monster, or something equally ridiculous, but rather, that I'm leaving home. And I never run; I walk. I often dream that, in the early hours of the morning, just as dawn is breaking, I slip from the house-- always the same house; one that I no longer live in, in a surprisingly consistent dreamscape that seems to combine Yorkshire (in and of itself, a personal Hell of mine) with Brighton, Gothenburg, London, and many other places, real and imaginary-- and wander off. I never pack any luggage; I just go.
But that's the thing. I never go far. I just leave, wander into a nearby field, and just keep walking, but I never leave town, so to speak. And that serves as a constant reminder that, in my waking life, I just don't have the balls to get up and go, to forget myself, or to reinvent myself. So I'm stuck as I am; as this worthless, self-loathing, pitiful excuse of a being.
Sometimes, when I'm lying in bed, I wonder what it would be like if I were falling, about to be impaled through the chest or back by a conveniently-placed spike. I wonder what it would be like if the position I was in was the crumpled remains of me, following a freak accident involving a tall building or a knife-wielding other-person, and whether They, the big They that is Everyone Else, would bother chalking my outline or investigating my case. I wouldn't. It wouldn't be worth the time or the money. Spilt milk, on the other hand, is much more worth crying over.
The sad thing is, I truly believe that. If I had a glass of milk, and spilt even some of it, that would be, for me, cause for significant lamentation. If I, on the other hand, were to trip, fall, and break my leg, consigning me ever after to a wheelchair, my only option would be to grin and bear it. Nobody else should worry-- it's not their problem-- so why should I?
Now, according to the Internet, all this self-hatred (and numerous other symptoms that. I assure you, beplague me) is down to a certain type of mental disorder.
That doesn't surprise me in the slightest. I knew there was something wrong with me all along. Still, I'm aware of the belief that I'm of the 'weak generation', since more people nowadays seem to suffer from mental illnesses and whathaveyou-- things that weren't problems 'back in the day'.
I'd be inclined to agree; there are people starving in Africa, to rehash an old cliché. There are people dying of cancer. People losing limbs in incidents that weren't their fault. These people all have physical impediments that can be stopped. My problem's 'all in my head'. That means I can just ignore it and it'll go away.
HA. If only it were that easy. Even if I could, I'm not worth the effort it would take. The irony is, I blame myself for that. I'm not capable of wishing it away. I can't make it all better. No-one can. That's yet another defect in me. And I'm imparting all of this unto you. Why should you care? You're part of the Everyone Else Collective, population: everyone but me. Perks of being a member include: mattering, having others care for you sincerely, and the ability to live in permanent happiness. My problems aren't worth your concern. If you're still reading nonetheless, have another award of some kind. Congratulations, you care about the narrative.
I've been writing (whining, rather) for nearly half an hour, now. I want to scream and start punching myself senseless, but all I can muster is a not-even-self-pitying sigh and some kind of spastic kicky-leg motion that I can't even explain. I want to scream; I want to hurt; I want to forget. But it can't happen. And so, I'm stuck in a loop.
The best I can do to try to combat all of this is writing it all down and post it online, passing it off as some kind of elaborate, psychoanalytical bedtime story. It's at this point that you should have worked out, beyond any doubt, that this was, at no point, a work of fiction, and that you've just taken a brief tour of the worthless space that is my mind. Spare me your pity. Yes, I know I need serious help. Can I ask for it? No. Not going to happen. Move along.
I'm a broken person at the very bottom of an emotional cycle that reaches, at its best, a brief cessation of self-judgement, and at its worst, this. Just let me lie here and be broken. Let me lie here and hate myself. But most of all, let me lie here and sleep.
Let me sleep, perchance to experience five more glorious seconds of not knowing who or what I am, the following morning. When I want to see the light, I can't, and when I am able to see the light, I can't allow myself to. I'm not worthy.
I'm not worthy. And I never will be. Don't try telling me otherwise, because I won't believe you.