Tuesday, June 21, 2016

A closed letter to nobody

There are few places where someone can be their full and unalstered selves without finding some kind of backlash from someone or something. Although, something that will only be seen by those who have kept an eye out for blogs that are so underground and old that it might as well be a time capsul could be a way to let out some steam. Or at least give some minutely helpful insight into something that I might actually know about, considering I seem to know shit nothing about most other things. Obviously I'm going to drunkinly attempt to explain what depression feels like. First, however, a quick glance into the last 6 years.

I'm in college, 19, in Canada where it's legal for me to drink. And I'm drunk.

Cool. So that's everything you need to know for now! Let's get into the nitty gritty. Please understand that the way I talk about death and the way you talk about it are very different. If you want something it always feels farther and harder to get than someone who either doesn't want it or gets it by luck. So while other people wake up and strive for some crazy objective and try their best to not die in the process, I strive for death and basjcally, fuck everything else. The immediate question that comes to mind is how I could ever actually go for the failure and the thing is I'm not trying to go for death.

The best way I can describe it is that I'm split into two people. One of them is me, the real me, struggling to crawl his way past the thick and grotesque foliage that is life and meanwhile I have another me that is pulling him down. Like when I see a job I think about it for a second like maybe I could do that but then almost immediately swoops in Mr. DepressedGuy who tells me that there's no way I could ever be of any use in the real work force and I should just give up. I don't have a BA, I'll never get to that point and even if I do there's no way I'll be charming enough or generally charismatic enough to get the family that I wanted so I'll end up in a situatuon that I hate and will live my life in lower-middle-class hell. Every day I wake up thinking about killing myself and every night I fall asleep hoping I don't wake up the next morning.

As much as I have heard very calming things from people like, "there are people who love you," and the like but frankly I haven't seen a single person outside of those obligated to love me actually love me. Maybe that chick was right in Freshman year and I'm simply an attention whore. Although I haven't recieved the same kind of appraisal as my peers from peers. In fact, I seem to be the last picked for a thought. For example when I walk into a room filled with people I'm supposed to be friends with. I usually walk in with other friends who I'm close to and everyone gets excited when he walks through the door and there I am as just an afterthought. For some, I'm not even a thought. Or at least that's how I see it. I see the people who are really indifferent about me and I them but if I'm so indifferent, why does it suck so much that they don't care?

I can imagine at my funeral there will be te usual amount of people. Friends from years gone by that could actually make it to the funeral, immediate and extended family, my best friends that I've made over these last couple of year and I bet they'll all say or think some pretty amazing things about me. They'd all be lies. They'll say things like, "he was so smart," or, "he loved everyone around him," or maybe some would even go as far to say that I was a, "good person," who maybe did or did not deserve to leave this earth so soon. Funny thing is, secretly I'm a pretty shit person. I'm not really all that smart and who's to say whether I actually deserve to die? I'm not saying I do I'm just saying what does it matter? I represent the middle, as far as I know it. I'm superbly and amazingly average. Average size, average build, average iq, average at sex, average looks, average fitness, average motivation, below average grades,  and average ability to put two and two together. I figure what's actually going to happen is, because of my inescapable and overwhelming averageness I'll end up working some desk job for some bank or maybe work IT at some school or even completely forfill a steryotype and become a telemarketer. So the pounding question that's in my mind is what do I have to look forward to?

I don't know what's going to happen in the future but I figure if this keeps up, the inability to get out of bed for myself, the inability to network, the inability to go a day without imagining myself hanging from a tree, then the only way I can go is down. And that's Mr. DepressedGuy, pulling me down. I can't help but let him. I'm really not strong enough to pull against and I've been fighting it for what is almost going to be my 10th year of this and I'm not a very old person so I've basically been thinking this way for a long time. So why not just fucking do it?

Well what I enjoy doing is planning it out. I used to do this when I was younger, plan my suicide, because then it feels more like a prank or the plot to a movie. I've tried hanging myself a couple of times. Maybe I'm just all bark and no bite because I remember standing on my hamper last year with an ethernet cable (which I fucking lost even though I now need it for actualy internet reasons) wraped tightly around my neck. I was playing music from my laptop and trying to set the mood for a suicide. I just remember crying, wobbling, giving up, calling myself a pussy (just like every time I can't actually go through with it) and passing out. Even in suicide I come up just short. Now, I feel like a robot. I live a monotonous life. Funny thing is, a month or two ago I thought I'd had some amazing epiphany that cured me but I didn't... And it didn't. So now I wake up, think about how I could die if I wasn't so scared to do it, eat breakfast, think about how all my friends actually just talk about how much I suck behind my back or at least think it to themselves, try to do something productive, fail at that, get high, eat, think about death as a construct, watch a movie, and sleep. My only hope is that some prince charming comes and puts a bullet in my head. Until then, I wait in my tall castle, with a chain attached to my leg to stop me from jumping. And this it what it feels like to be depressed. I hope this never gets read. Especially by people I know that will then be obligated to care. If you think I'm unsafe, you didn't read this correctly, go back, fuck yourself, and read it again.