“…And everything sucks. That day sucks. You throw your guitar to somebody, or your bass to somebody with bad intent.”
Billie Joe Armstrong.
Billie Joe Armstrong.
Oh, the bad days. Haven’t we all been there, and done that? Most of us can relate to it, but just a few will truly understand what it feels like having one of those shitty, shitty days where the world could just fall apart at your feet and you wouldn’t give a flying fuck about it.
I’m not exactly thinking about those insignificant days when you suddenly splash coffee on your tie before heading out to work in the morning, or when traffic is just so incredibly mind-numbing, that all you do is sit there in your car, or even more helplessly, on the bus, staring at your watch like a zombie, devoid of everything, while the rest of the humanity swears and screams around you; no, I won’t talk about that because that is precisely what one of my best days looks like.
I’m talking about a real mental breakdown, when finding a bottle of prescription pills in the bottom of your purse is the best part of the day, when your nerves are so ridiculously shaken, all you do is grab your temples and remind yourself that it will be over in a few hours, because it just has to be, and you have to believe that just to get yourself through the next minute.
The previous night, right before going to bed at nearly 3 o’clock in the morning, you swore to yourself that you had it all under control; after all, you planned everything carefully, didn’t you? You planned everything and you made the stupid mistake of thinking it was going to work out, but then, it just doesn’t. And you don’t even want to think about the point where it started going downhill; you don’t even want to figure out the moment where it all went wrong.
So, you ask yourself, is it really worth it? Having a mental breakdown over a spoiled class? Maybe, because it’s not just a spoiled class that went wrong, and a world of possibilities display itself at your feet. The reason you don’t seem to let go of your spoiled class is that maybe it’s not just a spoiled class. What if you’re just a shitty teacher, or a shitty musician, or a shitty writer? What if everything that makes you proud of yourself is everything that troubles you the most?
Then, it just strikes you. Even when you have been trying hard to keep your head cold, and your mind blank, right in the background, there’s this little voice that keeps speaking to you, trying to give you a reasonable cause for that panic attack forming deep within your gut. It keeps on telling you: maybe it is the way you dressed today, or maybe you’re tired, after all, you only had two hours of sleep, but in reality, you are very aware of the fact that it is because you just don’t give a shit anymore. You tried once and again to get better, to fake your smiles, and mean every little nice thing you say to your friends, family, and the strangers that suddenly approach you as if they wanted to hear all about how your day at work has been going, but then they go on walking along the hallway pretending they don’t even know you. You go along and walk behind them too, thinking you’re probably being unreasonable, or damn too dramatic for your own good.
What is there to do? That panic attack is striking hard, just like the one before, and the one before that. You…you need to go home. Yes, go home and have a cigarette, or something, but then, you remember you don’t have any left. Of course not, you fucking idiot. Even something like that just can’t go well in days like these.
You consider buying yourself some alcohol, but you don’t really see the point in that either. A minute of relief seems damn far away, and you know the one thing you can do to even start to make yourself feel a little better is write about it, just write about it, and save the document in one of those forgotten folders you ironically decided to name “My writings” because even if they are always telling you otherwise, no one is willing to deal with your shit. No one is ever ready to listen. They are hot on their heels to tell you all about their cheating girlfriends, and their crappy own days, but then, the seemingly never-ending waterfall of yeahs, lols, and oh, man, that’s gotta suck comes down on you, and there’s really nothing left to do, except write about it.
So, tell your story to yourself, because no one else will hear it. Every person on earth is busy telling themselves their own fucked up stories about how they suddenly splashed coffee on their ties before heading out to work that morning, and how they had to sit through traffic just looking at their watches on their cold wrists as the rest of the humanity swore and screamed around them.
They are just too busy to pay attention to anything that goes beyond their old noses. Maybe you are too. Maybe you are one of them, and that alone can scare you even more that having just a shitty, shitty day where finding a bottle of prescription pills in the bottom of your purse is the best of it all, and it is precisely then and there that your ridiculously shaken nerves calm down just for a bit. They are now steady enough for you to actually look up to the scorching sun, and mumble quietly, I’m going home now.
I’m not exactly thinking about those insignificant days when you suddenly splash coffee on your tie before heading out to work in the morning, or when traffic is just so incredibly mind-numbing, that all you do is sit there in your car, or even more helplessly, on the bus, staring at your watch like a zombie, devoid of everything, while the rest of the humanity swears and screams around you; no, I won’t talk about that because that is precisely what one of my best days looks like.
I’m talking about a real mental breakdown, when finding a bottle of prescription pills in the bottom of your purse is the best part of the day, when your nerves are so ridiculously shaken, all you do is grab your temples and remind yourself that it will be over in a few hours, because it just has to be, and you have to believe that just to get yourself through the next minute.
The previous night, right before going to bed at nearly 3 o’clock in the morning, you swore to yourself that you had it all under control; after all, you planned everything carefully, didn’t you? You planned everything and you made the stupid mistake of thinking it was going to work out, but then, it just doesn’t. And you don’t even want to think about the point where it started going downhill; you don’t even want to figure out the moment where it all went wrong.
So, you ask yourself, is it really worth it? Having a mental breakdown over a spoiled class? Maybe, because it’s not just a spoiled class that went wrong, and a world of possibilities display itself at your feet. The reason you don’t seem to let go of your spoiled class is that maybe it’s not just a spoiled class. What if you’re just a shitty teacher, or a shitty musician, or a shitty writer? What if everything that makes you proud of yourself is everything that troubles you the most?
Then, it just strikes you. Even when you have been trying hard to keep your head cold, and your mind blank, right in the background, there’s this little voice that keeps speaking to you, trying to give you a reasonable cause for that panic attack forming deep within your gut. It keeps on telling you: maybe it is the way you dressed today, or maybe you’re tired, after all, you only had two hours of sleep, but in reality, you are very aware of the fact that it is because you just don’t give a shit anymore. You tried once and again to get better, to fake your smiles, and mean every little nice thing you say to your friends, family, and the strangers that suddenly approach you as if they wanted to hear all about how your day at work has been going, but then they go on walking along the hallway pretending they don’t even know you. You go along and walk behind them too, thinking you’re probably being unreasonable, or damn too dramatic for your own good.
What is there to do? That panic attack is striking hard, just like the one before, and the one before that. You…you need to go home. Yes, go home and have a cigarette, or something, but then, you remember you don’t have any left. Of course not, you fucking idiot. Even something like that just can’t go well in days like these.
You consider buying yourself some alcohol, but you don’t really see the point in that either. A minute of relief seems damn far away, and you know the one thing you can do to even start to make yourself feel a little better is write about it, just write about it, and save the document in one of those forgotten folders you ironically decided to name “My writings” because even if they are always telling you otherwise, no one is willing to deal with your shit. No one is ever ready to listen. They are hot on their heels to tell you all about their cheating girlfriends, and their crappy own days, but then, the seemingly never-ending waterfall of yeahs, lols, and oh, man, that’s gotta suck comes down on you, and there’s really nothing left to do, except write about it.
So, tell your story to yourself, because no one else will hear it. Every person on earth is busy telling themselves their own fucked up stories about how they suddenly splashed coffee on their ties before heading out to work that morning, and how they had to sit through traffic just looking at their watches on their cold wrists as the rest of the humanity swore and screamed around them.
They are just too busy to pay attention to anything that goes beyond their old noses. Maybe you are too. Maybe you are one of them, and that alone can scare you even more that having just a shitty, shitty day where finding a bottle of prescription pills in the bottom of your purse is the best of it all, and it is precisely then and there that your ridiculously shaken nerves calm down just for a bit. They are now steady enough for you to actually look up to the scorching sun, and mumble quietly, I’m going home now.