Status: In Progress
Sweet Home... Minnesota?
Objective: Get Better?
It feels like someone’s boiling my insides. I feel like I’m dying. My heart aches like you can’t believe. I don’t understand this feeling. I don’t want to be this, I want to be happy, but at the same time I don’t. My body is a million degrees on the inside and negative digits on the outside. At once it feels like my insides are on fire but my skin is freezing.
I don’t know what I feel anymore.
Numb?
Blank?
Dead.
I feel dead. I don’t know how I came to be like this, all I know is that I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to be this person who’s always stewing in self-loathing. I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not though.
If I could characterize this feeling of brokenness it would probably be in the form of an existential metaphor. I’m a ratty old cliché that’s been slammed so hard into the dirt that I can’t even remember what hurts.
I think its oblivion. It’s oblivion that hurts. It’s the feeling of pointlessness. There’s nothing that makes me special, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around the stupidity of living. Why, and how do we have any consciousness at all if it’s only ever a terminal illness? Everyone dies, and sooner or later everyone is forgotten. If I am to be forgotten then why do I even push forward in the first place?
I’m Eleanor Rigby. Lonely, and lost. Who is ever going to remember me? Why does anyone try?
Why does life even have to happen if it ends up being deadly? The whole prospect of life is an oxymoron. Life is deadly, but still we clutch onto this rotating pile of rock and we go along for the ride. The ride that is so full of complete shit, and bad and horrible, wretched people, and there is ultimately no point to it all.
We live and then we die, and I don’t care if you think there’s an afterwards or none at all, because the point is that we are all future corpses.
Why do I try so hard to be happy when it’s clear that happiness was not meant for me? It’s a lifestyle that does not suit my own. Whenever I try to be happy I end up hurting everyone else in the fire. There’s no happiness for me even though I try to pretend there is.
“Gerard?” Frank asks.
I hadn’t even noticed where we were until I stop the car. I’m in front of Mikey’s house. This is not where I meant to go. Mikey is inside probably talking about how much he hates me. I don’t think I blame him. All the crap I’ve put him through and I’m still ungrateful to him. He’s the only person keeping me sane and it’s me that’s driving him insane. Why do I always hurt the people I love? All the stuff I do to try and make things better for the people I love is actually what makes things worse.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve heard that a lot in the past few days,” I answer him. “To be honest I don’t know. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“I’m not going to pretend I know how you feel because that would be a lie and I don’t want to demean the hurt you’re in, but I think you need to allow people to help you. I think you need to start trying to get better.”
“I don’t know what better is.”
“You’ve pushed yourself into crisis mode, Gerard. I wasn’t lying when I told you that you only see the bad yesterday,” Frank answers. My eyes are focused on my hands on the wheel and nowhere else.
I think he’s right. The trouble is that I’m far too comfortable being miserable to try and change. It’s not something that is easily fixed. I’m already broken and there are too many missing pieces to even try picking them up.
“Mikey doesn’t want to see me,” I say, pulling away from the house. I don’t know where Frank lives actually but I want to get away from this house.
“Gerard if you need to talk to him I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“But I don’t need to talk to him,” I answer.
“You keep telling yourself that but it’s never going to start being true.”
“I don’t need anyone’s help.”
Frank groans, “You have to fucking grow a pair! Everyone needs help sometimes. There’s no good reason to deny that. Sometimes you need help. I’m not saying your incompetent or anything, I’m just saying that you’re blind to how stupid this pride is.”
“I’m not trying to protect my pride-“
“Yes you damn well are!” Frank barks. He sighs and then rubs his eyes tiredly. Frank quietly gives me a direction and I remember what I asked him earlier.
Suddenly it doesn’t seem like such a great idea to go stay with him.
“Maybe I shouldn’t-“
“I’m not judging you Gerard. I’m just telling you how idiotic this pride is,” Frank answers. He is a character if I’ve ever met one. He’s also a stubborn little bastard.
“I’m pretty fucked up.”
“Who isn’t?”
I don’t know what I feel anymore.
Numb?
Blank?
Dead.
I feel dead. I don’t know how I came to be like this, all I know is that I don’t want to be this person. I don’t want to be this person who’s always stewing in self-loathing. I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not though.
If I could characterize this feeling of brokenness it would probably be in the form of an existential metaphor. I’m a ratty old cliché that’s been slammed so hard into the dirt that I can’t even remember what hurts.
I think its oblivion. It’s oblivion that hurts. It’s the feeling of pointlessness. There’s nothing that makes me special, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around the stupidity of living. Why, and how do we have any consciousness at all if it’s only ever a terminal illness? Everyone dies, and sooner or later everyone is forgotten. If I am to be forgotten then why do I even push forward in the first place?
I’m Eleanor Rigby. Lonely, and lost. Who is ever going to remember me? Why does anyone try?
Why does life even have to happen if it ends up being deadly? The whole prospect of life is an oxymoron. Life is deadly, but still we clutch onto this rotating pile of rock and we go along for the ride. The ride that is so full of complete shit, and bad and horrible, wretched people, and there is ultimately no point to it all.
We live and then we die, and I don’t care if you think there’s an afterwards or none at all, because the point is that we are all future corpses.
Why do I try so hard to be happy when it’s clear that happiness was not meant for me? It’s a lifestyle that does not suit my own. Whenever I try to be happy I end up hurting everyone else in the fire. There’s no happiness for me even though I try to pretend there is.
“Gerard?” Frank asks.
I hadn’t even noticed where we were until I stop the car. I’m in front of Mikey’s house. This is not where I meant to go. Mikey is inside probably talking about how much he hates me. I don’t think I blame him. All the crap I’ve put him through and I’m still ungrateful to him. He’s the only person keeping me sane and it’s me that’s driving him insane. Why do I always hurt the people I love? All the stuff I do to try and make things better for the people I love is actually what makes things worse.
“Are you okay?”
“I’ve heard that a lot in the past few days,” I answer him. “To be honest I don’t know. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
“I’m not going to pretend I know how you feel because that would be a lie and I don’t want to demean the hurt you’re in, but I think you need to allow people to help you. I think you need to start trying to get better.”
“I don’t know what better is.”
“You’ve pushed yourself into crisis mode, Gerard. I wasn’t lying when I told you that you only see the bad yesterday,” Frank answers. My eyes are focused on my hands on the wheel and nowhere else.
I think he’s right. The trouble is that I’m far too comfortable being miserable to try and change. It’s not something that is easily fixed. I’m already broken and there are too many missing pieces to even try picking them up.
“Mikey doesn’t want to see me,” I say, pulling away from the house. I don’t know where Frank lives actually but I want to get away from this house.
“Gerard if you need to talk to him I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“But I don’t need to talk to him,” I answer.
“You keep telling yourself that but it’s never going to start being true.”
“I don’t need anyone’s help.”
Frank groans, “You have to fucking grow a pair! Everyone needs help sometimes. There’s no good reason to deny that. Sometimes you need help. I’m not saying your incompetent or anything, I’m just saying that you’re blind to how stupid this pride is.”
“I’m not trying to protect my pride-“
“Yes you damn well are!” Frank barks. He sighs and then rubs his eyes tiredly. Frank quietly gives me a direction and I remember what I asked him earlier.
Suddenly it doesn’t seem like such a great idea to go stay with him.
“Maybe I shouldn’t-“
“I’m not judging you Gerard. I’m just telling you how idiotic this pride is,” Frank answers. He is a character if I’ve ever met one. He’s also a stubborn little bastard.
“I’m pretty fucked up.”
“Who isn’t?”
♠ ♠ ♠
I have to make a confession. This story is about overcoming depression, and I’m trying so hard to do it justice. I want to be able to show that it is possible, but my confession is that I’m a hypocrite.I’m not a happy person, and I ask you to forgive me for that fact, so please don’t hold that against me. The story will remain the same. I’m just sorry for being such a hypocrite. Maybe it’s better to write this story to demonstrate the goal I’m trying to reach. I want to be better, and I’ll be damned if you ever see me stop trying.
My friend tried to kill herself last week, and this week she told me how she started harming herself again. I’m going to dedicate this story to her. I just want to beg anyone and everyone reading this to never do anything to hurt yourself.