05/26/2013

I just find it so hard to give a shit anymore, so I mostly don’t.

My mom calls me and I have nothing to say.  I don’t leave the house, so what should I talk about?  She calls to nag me, because I don’t do enough.  Don’t have enough hobbies, or a job, or classes.  She goes to work and then watches 9 hours of television, so I’m not sure where her life is any better, but I’m above saying as much.

Every morning, it’s a 45-minute pep talk to convince myself that I shouldn’t kill myself.  Same arguments every day.  I really am only staying alive because I think my cat might miss me if I died.  I’m not sure.  I have doubts, but I try to dismiss them because I think that staying alive for any reason is probably better than dying, and I don’t need to doubt my only reason to live.

The bruises are taking a long time to fade.  I don’t care.  My scars itch all the time. 

I’m not sure any of it’s real.  Like, me.  Or anyone.  Nothing strikes me as particularly relevant.  I don’t know how to explain it.

I meant to do something worthwhile with my life, but…it’s a lot of work, and every time I start to make headway, or think I’m on the right track, I get kicked in the face again, so what’s the point?  I’m never going to be a doctor, or a vet, or a pharmacist, or anything I want to be because I’m stupid and lazy.  Mostly lazy. 

I think I need to accept at my age that I really am just destined to be the same kind of small-town fuckup that my father is.  I always said that I wouldn’t grow up into my father, but then I did anyway, right down to the addiction. 

I really should just kill myself, but I’m afraid.

I don’t even think my mom would care that much if I died.  She doesn’t like me all that much.  All I’ve ever been to her is an annoyance, or an inconvenience.  I’m too much like my father, but he doesn’t like me either.  If I killed myself, then it’d just be my sister.  She’s got the job, and the husband, and, someday, the cute babies.  She’s everything my mom ever wanted.  I’m just a miserable failure.