12/15/08

I don’t want to die, I sometimes wish I’d never been born at all.

Is it wrong to be nostalgic about a past that was cold and miserable?  About a past I know was cold and miserable?  Is it wrong to wish I would hurt that way again, to miss that pain?  Because the new pain is inadequate.

When I was in 11th grade, I was a pill popper.  They were some kind of diet pill that contained ephedrine, you know, the kind they don’t make any more.  In fact, I think that was why I stopped taking them—you couldn’t buy them anymore.  I would wake up at 5 in the morning for school and pop a couple of those with a couple of Excedrin to combat the headache that always came with it, and bounce off to school as happy as could be.  And it was nice, because even though I still hated myself and everyone around me, I could be downright cheerful about it.  I’d take some more of them when I got home from school, and then at bedtime I’d take Tylenol pm to get to sleep.  But I never considered it “doing drugs.”

I didn’t realize I was addicted until I had to stop taking them.  Suddenly, waking up at 5 in the morning to go to school was downright impossible.  I suffered constant fatigue and terrible headaches that nothing could kill.  My grades dropped and I stopped doing anything, really, except sleeping.

No one ever noticed.

But then, there’s so much that they never noticed.  And even when I told them, they still didn’t notice.

I spent tonight high as a fucking kite, doped up on pseudoephedrine and more no doze than anyone has a right to take.  High. as. a. fucking. kite.  I babbled incoherently, hand shaking as I tried to fill out Christmas cards in an understandable way.  I twitched, I stuttered, I slurred.  And all the while I wondered why they didn’t notice.  Maybe to me it seemed worse than it was.  Maybe.  Or maybe they just never want to see.

Sometimes I feel as though I could come out of my room with my wrists slashed open, sit down and start playing a videogame and they wouldn’t notice.  And it’s not that I do it for the attention—I’ve never gotten attention for it.  In fact, nothing would shame me more.  I guess it’s just that I’m hurt that no one sees me. 

But I’ve known that for a long time as well.

Sometimes it feels like I’m not even here, like I’m not even real.  Like I’m just some construct, or some part of the scenery that’s totally inconsequential to how the story goes.

I’ve been so alone for so long.  Words can’t even express what I want to say.

I never wanted to be that person.  The person who whines continually into an online journal, hoping desperately that someone would care.  That’s not right.  I have been trying and trying to purge this, to rid myself of this festering infection that has plagued me for my entire fucking life.  But the more I write, the more I realize that it cannot be purged, because I AM that festering infection.  All that I think is wrong with me is all that I am.  The anger, the disappointment, the fear, the hate, the disconnect, the apathy.  This is what I am.

There is nothing good inside of me.  But whether I have killed it, or they have killed it, or it was never there at all…will I ever know that?  Because I can’t remember what it feels like to have something good inside.  To have something worth cherishing and saving.

Everything inside of me is dirty and rotten and no matter how long I write, it will always be there poisoning me.

There is nothing good inside of me.  In all the thoughts I’ve had, the things I’ve done, none of it is…worth anything.<sp

an style=”mso-spacerun: yes”>  Every day is an abomination, an act against god.  I should never have existed.