I Was Just Looking For A Way Out...
Chapter 30
You know, all this self hatred I’ve got going for me, it really isn’t too unique or original. You can find it by the truckload in any eating disorder clinic; it’s in abundance in every strip club and pregnancy clinic across the nation. It’s even taught in churches. You’re taught to love god and hate yourself, to spend you entire life repenting, denying every sick twisted urge, deeming your thoughts and desires to be impure and evil.
Basically, I’m nothing special. Not that you needed to be told that… I don’t see dead people, I wasn’t bitten by any radioactive spiders, and I’m just as smart as the person sitting next to me, as boring too.
Except, I’m alone, and it hurts to move my legs after the brutal slashing I just gave them. The jiggling of the door handle I kept seeing was to tell me dinner was ready, not that my obese ass needs it. Self hatred is the appropriate response to what I see in the mirror, from an impartial bystander’s point of view, I’m probably right about every reason I’m currently in a hospital.
At least in my mind, but how reliable is my opinion? Again, I’m in a hospital because my brain doesn’t work right, because a chemical imbalance up top makes me just a tad unstable. It’s nothing I haven’t been over ten thousand times, and I don’t even know why I’m reviewing it, it’s not like I’m going to be tested.
Ashley walks in. I don’t know why, I don’t even know how she knows my room number, but there she is, as glorious and built up as ever. I know she isn’t everything I’m projecting on to her, but just because you know nothing’s going to happen does it make you any less freaked out when the power turns off?
I want to believe she’s beautiful, she’s artistic, and she’s smart. So I do. I want to believe she’s caring, she’s funny, I want to believe she’ll be there for me when I can’t stand being alone. Nothing she’s said even suggests that she is anything so far, but somewhere in my fucked up little fantasy world I’m making inferences off of guesses and calling it fact. I’m making her into the savior I haven’t found anywhere else because I know it’s out of reach. Because I know she has standards that are above me, because I know she’s purer then me. Or at least it’s what I want to believe.
“I brought you back your iPod.” She says after I don’t say hi. She holds it out and I take it.
“Thanks.” I force myself to reply, it comes out a croak. It’s not really that I’m nervous or shy, more detached, like I’ve been mixing my parents’ pain killers with their vodka. Feel free to replace one of those with sleeping pills, it doesn’t really matter which one, or just add it in excess. Here’s my chance for that conversation I dream of leading to love… and I say nothing. Instead she says,
“Well, I guess I’ll go.” She turns around to leave. And I let her leave, and I don’t say anything because I have a fantasy. Part of the fantasy with her is me not getting the girl. Part of it is her being too good for me. That might actually be the whole thing.
I’m ugly, and I’m stupid, and I’m bitter, and even the fact that I hate myself enough to think like this probably a major character flaw in itself. For her to be everything I want her to be, she could never dirty herself with the association of someone like me. Better then Jesus who preached to the prostitutes and thieves; I need the god who condemned them to burn. I’m supposed to try and always be trying. If I were to actually succeed the whole thing would collapse.
In my stupid, fucked up, delusional little fantasies: if I’m good enough for her, she’s not good enough for me.
I don’t need a girlfriend, I need an idol.
Basically, I’m nothing special. Not that you needed to be told that… I don’t see dead people, I wasn’t bitten by any radioactive spiders, and I’m just as smart as the person sitting next to me, as boring too.
Except, I’m alone, and it hurts to move my legs after the brutal slashing I just gave them. The jiggling of the door handle I kept seeing was to tell me dinner was ready, not that my obese ass needs it. Self hatred is the appropriate response to what I see in the mirror, from an impartial bystander’s point of view, I’m probably right about every reason I’m currently in a hospital.
At least in my mind, but how reliable is my opinion? Again, I’m in a hospital because my brain doesn’t work right, because a chemical imbalance up top makes me just a tad unstable. It’s nothing I haven’t been over ten thousand times, and I don’t even know why I’m reviewing it, it’s not like I’m going to be tested.
Ashley walks in. I don’t know why, I don’t even know how she knows my room number, but there she is, as glorious and built up as ever. I know she isn’t everything I’m projecting on to her, but just because you know nothing’s going to happen does it make you any less freaked out when the power turns off?
I want to believe she’s beautiful, she’s artistic, and she’s smart. So I do. I want to believe she’s caring, she’s funny, I want to believe she’ll be there for me when I can’t stand being alone. Nothing she’s said even suggests that she is anything so far, but somewhere in my fucked up little fantasy world I’m making inferences off of guesses and calling it fact. I’m making her into the savior I haven’t found anywhere else because I know it’s out of reach. Because I know she has standards that are above me, because I know she’s purer then me. Or at least it’s what I want to believe.
“I brought you back your iPod.” She says after I don’t say hi. She holds it out and I take it.
“Thanks.” I force myself to reply, it comes out a croak. It’s not really that I’m nervous or shy, more detached, like I’ve been mixing my parents’ pain killers with their vodka. Feel free to replace one of those with sleeping pills, it doesn’t really matter which one, or just add it in excess. Here’s my chance for that conversation I dream of leading to love… and I say nothing. Instead she says,
“Well, I guess I’ll go.” She turns around to leave. And I let her leave, and I don’t say anything because I have a fantasy. Part of the fantasy with her is me not getting the girl. Part of it is her being too good for me. That might actually be the whole thing.
I’m ugly, and I’m stupid, and I’m bitter, and even the fact that I hate myself enough to think like this probably a major character flaw in itself. For her to be everything I want her to be, she could never dirty herself with the association of someone like me. Better then Jesus who preached to the prostitutes and thieves; I need the god who condemned them to burn. I’m supposed to try and always be trying. If I were to actually succeed the whole thing would collapse.
In my stupid, fucked up, delusional little fantasies: if I’m good enough for her, she’s not good enough for me.
I don’t need a girlfriend, I need an idol.