Moving

This blog is being moved to my new site which can be found here.

I will be reposting some of the content from here, but mostly I will be working on new content. The issue is primarily the url of this blog, it just irks me. The new site has only a few posts at the moment as I am still working on the site. My absence as of late has been primarily due to my working on other blogs as well as rethinking how I, personally, want to blog on WordPress. Feel free to follow me on my new blog.

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Thank You

I just noticed the note you left me in my book. “Thanks for existing…And staying with me…” The date is 03, the same day we would break each other. Life is ironic. It rained that day, after a week of sunshine (This is coincidence, I am aware, not irony, which reminds me of a certain list that was written so long ago). I never read or noticed that note till now. Perhaps if I had, I would not have doubted. I was 1/5, the note said.  That is all I have now. New notes, old letters, and books, but best of all, old memories.

Thank you.

Therapy

Having a blog is rather therapeutic. In recent days I have forgotten that. An hour ago I was lonely, horribly sad, wanting to hurt myself, wanting to hurt other people and feeling abjectly awful, a collection of feelings that seems to come around more often than not. I would appreciate if a few of the items on that list were switched out, if only for variety’s sake. WordPress is the best kind of therapist. I type my problems into a text box, click publish, and suddenly feel much better. Then, my readers probably absorb my problems, so the system needs a little bit of tinkering.

I had a bit of a problem. Of course, most of my difficult problems are of the social variety. People are, unfortunately, rather complicated. I’m a fairly simple guy, probably have a gear or two less than the rest of the herd. That’s not to say I’m stupid, as you probably thought, but just that I’m simple. I want simple things, I like simple things, and I hate how everything has to be so complicated. It’s alright though, I have some idea now what I have to do. As it would turn out, all my problems are of the same variety. Everything traces back to my life. I figure I should fix myself up, because most people don’t want to do it for me. A jolly good idea, I’ll say, but one that I’ve been struggling with for my whole life.

This damn year has been crazy, and it’s only been a month.

Winter Break

Winter break has been one never-ending hell. And it’s only half finished. Unbelievable. School already feels like a memory from a lifetime ago.

What makes it worse is that I’m supposed to be happy. No school, my birthday, christmas, new years. I miss school because I don’t ever talk to anyone outside of school. My birthday was shitty because I sat around moping for myself. Christmas was also pretty trash, except I had cousins over, so I at least could distract myself a bit. Now New Year’s Eve. I’m supposed to be having a fun time with family and friends (haha, friends), only problem is I spent half the day sleeping and the other half alternating between feeling empty and horribly sad and lonely. It’s 9 pm, I’ve only been awake for 9 hours, and this day has felt endless. Now all I want is a gun in my mouth. My parents are annoyed that I spend my break moping around the house, my friends get annoyed when I tell them my sad life, no one really wants to be around me. I did something mean to my little sister. She’s only 4, and she was trying to be sweet and considerate, I am in such a sorry state that I took it the wrong way and pushed her away. I feel like trash. When people are considerate or kind toward me now I either take it the wrong way, or feel like they do it out of pity.

This blog is the only way I can talk about my problems. The only issue being, the readers of my blog are just that. Faceless people who can listen, but can’t help. I don’t want to tell my parents. They’ll feel bad for me, they’ll be more considerate, they’ll act kinder, I don’t want that. I don’t want to feel like I made them be nice by telling them I have a mental disorder. I’ve always lived my life for others. Went out of my way to do things for people. Was probably too nice. I’m the type of guy to carry around cash, not in case I get hungry, but in case I see a homeless guy asking for money.

I don’t even know why I’m writing these anecdotes anymore. This entire post is disjointed. Makes little to no sense. Why am I writing this? Because I’m in pain. I can feel it. It’s real, it’s a physical pain in the back of my head, like someone is squeezing the life out of me. My parents ask me what’s wrong with me, I tell them I have a headache. It’s a half truth. I feel guilty for telling half the truth. After all, they deserve to know what’s wrong with me. I want everyone to hate me, so I don’t feel bad about dying. The curse of being considerate with depression. I can’t do anything I know would hurt someone else terribly. That’s all that is holding me back. I don’t enjoy life, I have moments of happiness, which fade away into the sea of despair that is my week. Life feels mechanical, like a chore, something that must be done so no one knows anything is wrong. All this blog does is chronicle my descent into myself. It’s also a way to talk to people, because I feel like I have nowhere else to turn. Without this blog I have nothing. This blog is the one way I can have people read about my problems. This blog is like a single crutch for a double amputee. Better than nothing.

The worst part of depression is there is no rock bottom. There’s no point where you can go nowhere but up, because rock bottom is dead. And once you’re dead, you’re dead.

The same song has played in my head throughout the day. Over and over. The Cloud Atlas Sextet. Rather fitting. “Why?” You may ask. Who knows. Least of all me.

Regression

I’ve regressed. I’m back to talking to myself in my head and listening to the same music I have played over and over for years. Today was just another day, except I’m 17, and I think I pissed off my parents. It’s supposed to be my special day, and the most exciting thing I did was take apart a bed, enjoyable, but not notable. I could tinker with things all day, it helps ground me in reality. Life becomes as simple as pulling a screw out of a hole and turning a screw driver. It’s the simple tasks, I’ve found, that are most satisfying.

I’ve never changed. I always have the same haircut, the same clothes, the same interests. Joseph is the kid who is in every class who just sits there. Reliable old me, the guy who bothers with you a text about politics or his depressing life when you just started blissfully forgetting he existed. I stopped initiating text conversations with my friends a while back. Haven’t received a text from any of them in months. Do I give a damn? Not really. I’ve just learned I’m probably not that important to most people. Oh well, that’s their problem, since I’m such a (Narcissistic adjective needed) person. I’m just unsure why people don’t want to do anything with me. If I suddenly went quiet, never texted, only said hi to people at school and exchanged a few bullshits, and never invited anyone anywhere, no one would really mind. I’ve thought about going to the doctor, to ask about my mental health, maybe I’ll get diagnosed with depression, then it’ll be official and I can REALLY beg for sympathy.

“I’m depressed”

“Oh really? Maybe you’re just a whiny bitch?”

*pulls out diagnosis

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you want a cookie?”

I probably shouldn’t though. Knowing the state of US healthcare, I’d probably get sent home with a bottle of happy pills, just because some fat cat in charge of a pharma company needed a little pocket change. The day I begin taking pills is the day I kill myself. No way am I going to live like some half rate heroin junky, relying on a drug to get my hit of happiness.

I just wonder why no one wants to be with me as bad as I want to hang around with them. This isn’t something new. My memories from elementary school are always of people hanging out without me. I probably seem odd to most people, probably look like a dumbass who is just taking advanced classes to attempt to go to a nice college. At least, that’s what I’ve heard from people who didn’t know me well, a grand total of 2 people. One is now my friend, the other was and always will be a self righteous asshole. A very intelligent fellow, but a complete dickwad, nonetheless. I’m a nice guy though, probably too nice, unless you start talking about politics, in which case I get very un-nice, for lack of a better newspeak term. I like books, movies, and politics, seems like I would be able to get some next level conversations going, except no one reads anymore, and my taste in movies probably has more in common with those of kids born in the 80s, thanks dad.

On a side note, everything on this blog is probably going to be more bloggish. I got tired of poems and stories. Those will show up once in a while, when I feel like being a cryptic bastard. This is far more therapeutic than being poet.

Birthdays

I hate my birthday. It’s pure bullshittery is what it is. People do things for me just because its my birthday. Like I give a damn. I want people to do things for me, not because I got a day older, and the day happened to land on some bullshit arbitrary marker that tells when the world came back to a spot it was a year earlier. If you didn’t give enough shits to do anything nice before, then why do it now? You probably don’t give a damn about me anyway, so don’t feel obligated to be nice just because its my birthday.

Or maybe I’m just unused to people caring about me as much as I care about them. So I don’t expect people to actually want to be nice. Once upon a time I believed in reciprocity, and then my friend google told me that most likely I’m just dirt to the people I value most. Probably true from what I can tell. Maybe I’m just an asshole who needs everyone to hate themselves more than I do so I can feel happy. I only get happy when the people around me fuck up so I feel better about myself. I don’t get happy for my friends, I can only think “Fuck you, what did you do to deserve this?”. Then I bitch about my problems expecting sympathy. I’m just a self centered asshole, it’s no wonder everything has been fucked up, life’s been one long slide. And now here I am, writing out a rant. Maybe I just want sympathy, or maybe I want something else, I don’t know. And who gives a damn anyways?