10/17/08

Sometimes, it’s so hard to find the words I need to let this out.  It’s almost like the english language is more of a hindrance than a help, because it forces me to impose order on chaos.  And all attempts at order are swallowed before their conception.

I don’t feel like I’ve ever done anything right, or good, or worthwhile.  I have felt, on and off for most of my life, that my very existence is futile.  Or that my very existence is degrading humanity as a whole.  And that through merely existing I am creating evil. 

I’ve hated myself for so long, it doesn’t even really strike me as odd.  I can’t imagine an existence without self-loathing.  It is completely foreign to me that there are people who don’t hate themselves, who don’t hate everything their hands have ever wrought.  That there are people who don’t ache every second of every day to escape from themselves, to just leave themselves lying in the dirt and muck  from whence they came.

Inside, I scoff at myself even as I write this, and rightfully so.  Because, as an American I have been given rights and privileges above and beyond those afforded to any other people in the world.  By just being American I am privileged .  And, yet, here I am, so full of hate and sorrow that I am almost incapable of functioning.  What the fuck is this?  I have tried so hard to not be like this any more.  I have, I really have.  I have been trying my whole fucking life to be better than this and where has it gotten me?  I feel more and more pathetic every day.

But I am still here.  I have thought about suicide every day for the last 4 years, and I am still here.  Every day, I feel more pathetic, and every day I hate myself more, but I am still here.  Is it because I’m weak?  I think it IS.  I am so fucking weak.

And there is no limit to it.  There are no limits on what people can feel.  The idea of reaching a "breaking point" is wrong because there is no limit to how much you can hurt.  I hurt more every day.  But I am still here.  I still get up in the morning, and I still make it through the day and every day I think I’m going to fall apart but I never do, and every day is worse than the one before.  I have reached so many "breaking points" but still walked away with my sanity intact, even as I wished I was just crazy so it wouldn’t hurt so fucking much any more. 

But what do I know, really?  What the fuck do I know?  I know shit, that’s what, because I’ve never been there or done that.  and, hell, maybe breaking points do exist and I’m not even close because I don’t know what it’s like to suffer.  Even though I’ve had everything taken from me, every goddamn fucking thing, I don’t know what it’s like to suffer.  Because even as I watched them sell my house, and even as I watched them all leave me behind, and even as I sat with the knife pressed against my throat, I knew that I was STILL better off than anyone else in the fucking world, and how fucking pathetic am I?  HOW FUCKING PATHETIC AM I?

Do you KNOW? 

This language constrains me, because the words do not exist.  There are no turns of phrase that will make this better.  This is MY responsibility now.  I have flayed myself open, with my insides laid open for you to see.  Is there nothing else I can do?