In the Span of My Life

You know how when you’re just sitting there in a room full of yours friends (or at least one or two) and then, out of literally flying fucking nowhere you get that deep-weighted feeling in your chest, like sadness is just pulling on your strings, and you can physically feel yourself starting to get depressed? Yeah, that happened to me, so like always, I decided to be a fucktard, ignore the problem, and just write random shit to get over it.

I’m really getting tired of this depression shit; I mean seriously, it’s getting old. I’m tired of rethinking every little action I’ve done since the age of two, and trying to figure out why these sudden outbursts of sadness that just seems to cripple me to my knees seem to come out of nowhere. You know how annoy and self-centered it seems when you’re talking to someone who’s supposed to be your best friend, and they’re talking about how they cut themselves pretty bad last night, and how you’re all mad at them for hurting themselves, and then they say something along the lines of their parents say they’re only cutting because they want attention, and all you can think it is, “Well, it really is kinda for attention. There aren’t that many people out there like me who just cut and don’t tell anyone.”

Because, if I were to cut and somehow someone found out – like my mom, per se – she would immediately declare me crazy and send me away. Because it’s not logical to actually contemplate suicide and why in the hell where you even born anyway, and you cut on your legs and upper arms just to hurt yourself because you hate yourself so much, (and also the fact that it makes it seem like you actually have feelings instead of being the numb empty shell of a person you used to be).

So yeah, but I kinda just did the thing that I just said I sort of hated, telling people that you cut, instead of keeping it a secret to yourself. But then it’s all different when your best friend cuts and you want them to stop, it’s just an automatic reaction, I guess.

‘Cause I remember a time when I went all pyromaniac and shit and started burning the tips of my fingers when I was like 12 so that for that moment, I could actually feel something, and so whenever I tried to pick up a pencil at school, I could remember that pain that I self-induced, and think, “This is why. This is why you hate yourself. Why are you even alive?” And stupid shit like that. I remember a time when cutting wasn’t even a typical thing, and that if you had depression, it was a big deal and you got on meds or some shit before it even turned into something that serious.

I just don’t understand how things like that could just change so fast.

But, I’m not at the cutting point right now; I’m just at that weird stage when you just sit there and observe the world, just thinking about nonsense and not even meaning anything by it, you’re just sort of pensive about everything.

I don’t think there’s ever been a time where it seems like I’ve had completely different like, traits to myself. I just seem impossibly ambiguous and misleading. Seriously, I have no fucking clue as to who I am. I’m either just laughing my ass off, getting really pissed and flipping shit, or just outrageously depressed to the point where I just sit there and let everything crumble.

And I hate that shit! It’s like a fourth part of me is just saying, “Wake the fuck up and stop acting like an idiot. It’s all in your fucking head, stop being so stupid.” But I can’t help it, even though I try to fight the fuck out of it.

I’ve been dealing with all this stupid stuff for such a long time, that the only time I remember not being all fucked up is my first birthday. It’s the first memory I have, and then it skips some parts until I’m two, and I remember stuff like how the house I lived in looked, and how I only used to see my mom in the day— since she worked at night, and how my dad just listened to the stereo all the time and made Hot Pockets and weird shit like that.

And then I remember stuff from when I was four, when I was in pre-school. And I remember how impatient and stupid everyone seemed, and how I was like the only pre-schooler that actually understood the stuff going around me. I just seemed like a huge thinker, I was just thinking all the time, like I knew what I was talking about.

And then, yet again, I just remember feeling sad, and then getting really angry to the point where I would just smash all my stuff when I was in kindergarten, and then I would just feel so lonely during the day. And how I remember not telling my mom and dad shit so that they wouldn’t worry. You don’t tell your mom and dad that when you’re six years old, that you understand everything that’s going on.

You don’t tell them any of that stuff because you already have enough problems. I’ve moved about six times in the first six years of my life, all because we were poor, partially because my mom’s job didn’t pay that much and also because when your dad steals money and pawns off your welfare for drugs, you don’t have that much money left.

It’s just stuff like that, including how I realized one day in kindergarten that you could actually choose to be good or bad, instead of like most of the kids there that just acted on instinct. It was then I realized that you could fool people into thinking someone else, and that if you were sincere enough, people would actually believe the lies that you told, which in your mind, were so obviously false.

And then everything settles at the end of the night, where you’re just lying there in your bed, thinking hurtful shit to yourself: Am I actually just doing this for attention? Is there something wrong with me? Is this just a ‘phase’? Why can’t I control the way I fucking think?

So yeah. That’s the boring shit that’s happened to me in the 16 year span of life that just clutters up my mind and makes me feel like a total complete bitch when you criticize your own friend for cutting. Because you view them as perfect, they don’t need to cut; they’re not fucked up like you are. No one can be as fucked up as your are, or else, how would anyone else be able to function? Because you barely can yourself.

But now, I can’t even force the happiness out of me, I just sit here, trying to keep everything in so that I one day randomly curl up into fetal position in a public place or something and just sit there— thinking.

But anyways, that’s about it. Probably during tomorrow, I’ll probably be able to muster up some effort and actually give a fuck, and actually feel feelings and emotions and all that shit. They come and go, they really do. I wish I could say that I’m used to it now, but I’m really not.