I rarely ever post on this blog, that's my own fault. But I need somewhere to think out loud, somewhere to contemplate that shitstorm that is my mind, a respite. Seeing as how I sincerely doubt this post will reach anyone, for the night this place will be the Eden in my own personal Hell.
Anyone who knows me would probably describe me as a normal, upbeat person (or at least so I hope). Those that know me better are more familiar with the personal demons I keep. Namely that I have depression, an affliction which plagues my father's side of my family and which was, apparently, passed unto me at some point in time. More importantly though, I have suicidal tendencies. For most people, having time to themselves is a dream come true. For me, being by myself is one of my fears in a sense. When I'm by myself, I have the time to think of what I've done with my life, the great accomplishments I've made, in other words, none.
Sure, I've done well enough in school and have even received recognition of such much to the chagrin of my parents, but never to myself. I never took pride in any of these so-called accomplishments, it was just another means for them to feel a sense of self-validation, like they had done something right for once. The truth is, virtually everything I've ever done in life has been to try and please them. When I failed and received nothing more than indignation and abuse, when I was blamed for the ills of my family, when it became apparent that my sister was their favorite child and I was pushed to the wayside. Everything I did, I did for them. Why? I don't honestly know, can't say I ever will. Maybe it was just to feel like I was worth something more than what I was....
And so it is that I've inevitably come to the conclusion that my life is an ineffectual one. Have I really done anything with my life of worth? I've certainly not given anything to this backwards fuck society. I'm a 20-year-old kid who's fucking terrified of becoming an adult. I'm a bitter bastard that hates everything and can't let go of the past. They say time heals everything, but that's a fucking lie. Time only makes things worse. I strove to become everything my parents were not, and in the process alienated myself from my entire family. I'm little more than a stranger residing in their abode, a shadow on their wall. If I died, it wouldn't mean anything. Sure, it might hurt some people at first but as so many fuckers like to idealize, "time heals everything." Given enough time, I'd be forgotten and eventually erased from the minds of everyone I know and love. Eradicated from society in a state of oblivion. What we fear most isn't the concept of death itself, but the idea of being forgotten. What happens when that element of being forgotten is a non-issue? Well, you get me.
I simply don't have the motivation or reason necessary to continue my life as it is today. If I don't have that, then should I even bother? I just don't know anymore.... So much of my time spent by myself revolves around my thoughts of suicide. I try to reassure myself that I matter, but I just can't fucking lie to myself. I'm a single grain of sand in a storm and that realization just breaks me. With my end, nothing changes, the world continues revolving. I'm insignificant. I'm meaningless. Because of that, I can't see any reason to bother anymore. I find solace in the eternal respite that death provides. No more strife, no more worries, only an endless freedom found in an infinitesimal blackness. Quite honestly, I find that a more appealing prospect than my moral life.
I don't know what the hell I intended to do with this post. Like I said, I just wanted somewhere to think out loud for once. Maybe it'll help, maybe it won't. But either way, at least I've got that out there. I suppose only time will tell what decision I choose to make. Until then, it's daily life for me as usual. My purgatory. The only thing I ask is that when I do die, could someone please play Blue by Mai Yamame at whatever memorial service I may have? I think I'd like that... I would....
Thanks for the read, and until I return, goodbye.
Anyone who knows me would probably describe me as a normal, upbeat person (or at least so I hope). Those that know me better are more familiar with the personal demons I keep. Namely that I have depression, an affliction which plagues my father's side of my family and which was, apparently, passed unto me at some point in time. More importantly though, I have suicidal tendencies. For most people, having time to themselves is a dream come true. For me, being by myself is one of my fears in a sense. When I'm by myself, I have the time to think of what I've done with my life, the great accomplishments I've made, in other words, none.
Sure, I've done well enough in school and have even received recognition of such much to the chagrin of my parents, but never to myself. I never took pride in any of these so-called accomplishments, it was just another means for them to feel a sense of self-validation, like they had done something right for once. The truth is, virtually everything I've ever done in life has been to try and please them. When I failed and received nothing more than indignation and abuse, when I was blamed for the ills of my family, when it became apparent that my sister was their favorite child and I was pushed to the wayside. Everything I did, I did for them. Why? I don't honestly know, can't say I ever will. Maybe it was just to feel like I was worth something more than what I was....
And so it is that I've inevitably come to the conclusion that my life is an ineffectual one. Have I really done anything with my life of worth? I've certainly not given anything to this backwards fuck society. I'm a 20-year-old kid who's fucking terrified of becoming an adult. I'm a bitter bastard that hates everything and can't let go of the past. They say time heals everything, but that's a fucking lie. Time only makes things worse. I strove to become everything my parents were not, and in the process alienated myself from my entire family. I'm little more than a stranger residing in their abode, a shadow on their wall. If I died, it wouldn't mean anything. Sure, it might hurt some people at first but as so many fuckers like to idealize, "time heals everything." Given enough time, I'd be forgotten and eventually erased from the minds of everyone I know and love. Eradicated from society in a state of oblivion. What we fear most isn't the concept of death itself, but the idea of being forgotten. What happens when that element of being forgotten is a non-issue? Well, you get me.
I simply don't have the motivation or reason necessary to continue my life as it is today. If I don't have that, then should I even bother? I just don't know anymore.... So much of my time spent by myself revolves around my thoughts of suicide. I try to reassure myself that I matter, but I just can't fucking lie to myself. I'm a single grain of sand in a storm and that realization just breaks me. With my end, nothing changes, the world continues revolving. I'm insignificant. I'm meaningless. Because of that, I can't see any reason to bother anymore. I find solace in the eternal respite that death provides. No more strife, no more worries, only an endless freedom found in an infinitesimal blackness. Quite honestly, I find that a more appealing prospect than my moral life.
I don't know what the hell I intended to do with this post. Like I said, I just wanted somewhere to think out loud for once. Maybe it'll help, maybe it won't. But either way, at least I've got that out there. I suppose only time will tell what decision I choose to make. Until then, it's daily life for me as usual. My purgatory. The only thing I ask is that when I do die, could someone please play Blue by Mai Yamame at whatever memorial service I may have? I think I'd like that... I would....
Thanks for the read, and until I return, goodbye.
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