Idle Hands.
control.
I was never a person who could be happy with anything. Sometimes I was content or felt something was reasonable or fair enough, but I was never really "happy". I guess it's because I wasn't really looking for reasons. I just expected them to come to me.
I always felt guilty and like I was choking. My chest was always tight. It was a strange and unwelcome feeling, but it wasn't abnormal to me and I had gotten used to it. I always had to keep busy, because if left idle, my mind would wander to memories I disliked or thoughts I hated. That's why I hated summer. Too much free time.
I think I liked having problems. I liked harping on bad things and making people realize how well off they had it. I was kind of like a martyr, suffering for the indirect good of others. I was a dark person. Being around me made people appreciate the sunlight.
I diagnose myself with things I knew I had. It was in the summer that through extensive late night research I had done on the internet that I realized that I had atypical depression. That's essentially where you're unhappy all the time, but occasionally think you're no longer depressed when something "good" happens. Them, that good eventually goes away and you're back to where you started from. That's the story of my life.
There's a person I know and he reminds me of every emotionless protagonist who bottles everything up in every sad book I've ever read or every depressing movie I've ever watched. He told me he wanted to sit on my hill with me at midnight. We both knew it wouldn't happen. We hate people too much. I told him that I thought I had atypical depression. He said "you're fine". I said yeah, and he never sat on my hill. I was relieved.
The boy I love, he says I worry too much. He tells me to stop. I try to explain that it's hard for me to stop. This is almost twenty years of solid worrying and anxiety and social rejection filling my body. It's hard to control all that. I try to explain, and he calls me baby and tells me again to stop. I say, okay, and we move on.
Sometimes I look at him and I smile or smirk or something and he asks me what I'm smiling at, or why I'm smiling. Every time, I say "you". Sometimes he smiles back, sometimes he kisses me, sometimes he asks why again or "what about me?". I tell him, and sometimes I tell him that I love him so much, and it sounds like a desperate plea, and not a proclamation of love.
He always smells good and tastes like cigarettes and knows more about words and sports than I do. He's exactly like me and I love him very much. I hate myself, but I love him. Life is strange like that.
Sometimes, there's this overwhelming sadness inside the very pit on my stomach and it spreads through my body like blood would flow through my veins. It weighs me down and it becomes part of me, and it redirects me from wherever I am to the nearest bed or bathroom floor. I stare ahead and sometimes I cry as quietly as possible, so that I don't have to explain myself if someone hears me. When someone asks what's wrong, I never know what to say because I just don't know. Explaining that I'm sad about life is enough to make people roll their eyes and walk away sighing.
The other night, my brother said he didn't feel right in the head. He felt off, and wrong. My mother responded with, "Oh, Jesus Christ. Here we go again". My confused younger sibling asked "What?" and when he just got a sigh in return, stormed out of the room. My mother looked me in the eyes and said "Don't ever have children. I love you, but don't ever, ever have kids. This shit happens out of nowhere". I stayed silent. I'm still silent.
I always felt guilty and like I was choking. My chest was always tight. It was a strange and unwelcome feeling, but it wasn't abnormal to me and I had gotten used to it. I always had to keep busy, because if left idle, my mind would wander to memories I disliked or thoughts I hated. That's why I hated summer. Too much free time.
I think I liked having problems. I liked harping on bad things and making people realize how well off they had it. I was kind of like a martyr, suffering for the indirect good of others. I was a dark person. Being around me made people appreciate the sunlight.
I diagnose myself with things I knew I had. It was in the summer that through extensive late night research I had done on the internet that I realized that I had atypical depression. That's essentially where you're unhappy all the time, but occasionally think you're no longer depressed when something "good" happens. Them, that good eventually goes away and you're back to where you started from. That's the story of my life.
There's a person I know and he reminds me of every emotionless protagonist who bottles everything up in every sad book I've ever read or every depressing movie I've ever watched. He told me he wanted to sit on my hill with me at midnight. We both knew it wouldn't happen. We hate people too much. I told him that I thought I had atypical depression. He said "you're fine". I said yeah, and he never sat on my hill. I was relieved.
The boy I love, he says I worry too much. He tells me to stop. I try to explain that it's hard for me to stop. This is almost twenty years of solid worrying and anxiety and social rejection filling my body. It's hard to control all that. I try to explain, and he calls me baby and tells me again to stop. I say, okay, and we move on.
Sometimes I look at him and I smile or smirk or something and he asks me what I'm smiling at, or why I'm smiling. Every time, I say "you". Sometimes he smiles back, sometimes he kisses me, sometimes he asks why again or "what about me?". I tell him, and sometimes I tell him that I love him so much, and it sounds like a desperate plea, and not a proclamation of love.
He always smells good and tastes like cigarettes and knows more about words and sports than I do. He's exactly like me and I love him very much. I hate myself, but I love him. Life is strange like that.
Sometimes, there's this overwhelming sadness inside the very pit on my stomach and it spreads through my body like blood would flow through my veins. It weighs me down and it becomes part of me, and it redirects me from wherever I am to the nearest bed or bathroom floor. I stare ahead and sometimes I cry as quietly as possible, so that I don't have to explain myself if someone hears me. When someone asks what's wrong, I never know what to say because I just don't know. Explaining that I'm sad about life is enough to make people roll their eyes and walk away sighing.
The other night, my brother said he didn't feel right in the head. He felt off, and wrong. My mother responded with, "Oh, Jesus Christ. Here we go again". My confused younger sibling asked "What?" and when he just got a sigh in return, stormed out of the room. My mother looked me in the eyes and said "Don't ever have children. I love you, but don't ever, ever have kids. This shit happens out of nowhere". I stayed silent. I'm still silent.