Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“I’m failing. Everything that I am; body, mind, spirit, and all the other shit in between, I am a failure.”

I can’t resist the urge to break. It’s almost like a need, a physical itch that demands I scratch it with a freshly sharpened pocket knife.

I hate this feeling.

I am filled up with things and stuff instead of love and warmth, and it hurts. I want to cry. Every day I want to do nothing else but cry. I scream at myself in the car until the stares from strangers drives me into a deep enough shame that I choke on my stupidity. I want to be numb, so I take these pills. I want to forget, so I do these drugs. I want to erase myself from this world, so I spend as much time as I can on my own. I want to die, so I research methods of suicide and write notes for the police, my parents, and everyone else. I want to suffer, so I make sure God can do nothing but hate me. I want…I want out of this cycle…I want to live and smile and have hope…I want to not eat until I’m sick, throwing up in the bathroom, returning from every meal with a fever…I want to stop being so lazy and tired, to find the motivation to move my stupid body, to make it react, to force it awake…I want to find love for myself, any reason to love me at all…I want to do something with the love others have given me aside from ripping it up in front of their faces…I want to be proud, to make others proud of me…I want to exist without wishing I didn’t exist…I want to exist without thinking I have to suffer for my existence…I want that, all of that…but I did it again. In the time between my millionth plan to become a better person and lunch, I’ve tossed it all away again…again and again and again…all that planning, the time and energy and effort, and all of it wasted again…once again I did nothing…once again I managed to find a new low…again and again and again…I don’t want anymore, never again…I don’t want to suffer, and I don’t want to die…and I don’t want to live…so what can I do?

What can a loser like me do…

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I don’t know where I’m coming from, and I don’t care where I’m heading. I wish I had the strength to just…stop.

I’ve spent the past 6 years trying to erase everything.

If our lives are homes that grow with time, than what I have been doing is leaving the front door unlocked, every window open, and I couldn’t even wait for the world to rip out anything of value, so I actively participated in the pillaging, until nothing of value remained.

I’m an empty house, stripped bare from 6 years of trying to erase whatever we shared, and I shared it all, so it all came down.

20 years of life that I remember, and each memory has now be drowned, and it only took 6 years to destroy whatever I used to be, so the work is done…right?

Yes, that must be rightbut if that’s true…

~Why am I still breathing?~

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“Life with you wasn’t perfect, but it was only with you that I found myself grateful that I was alive.”

I understand that what I’m doing isn’t exactly “healthy,” okay? I can comprehend that the momentary sense of euphoria is the result of a release of endorphins in response to the pain. I could get the same effect from something like running, or fucking. Yet here I am, all alone, exhausted from doing fuck all over the past million minutes. Actually, I’m probably being a bit harsh on myself, because I have done a few things over the past week. I managed to drag my ass into work, Monday through Friday, 8AM to 5PM. I didn’t get all of my work finished that I should have, but I can take my work laptop home, so I can play catch up at some point in between my wild and wacky weekend antics (which is, of course, just me, sitting alone in my pitch black bedroom, with nothing but a 2 liter of Mountain Dew as sustenance and my non-work laptop as a means of feeling connected to the world, even if only through binging early 2000’s Anime and re-watching old YouTube videos). I also did some shopping this week, so my pantry is full. It is true that 99% of that pantry space is occupied by Cup Noodle, but I did get a nice variety of flavors, because I care about having a diverse and well-rounded diet. So yeah, I’m chugging along at a nice, even clip. I deserve a reward for having such a productive week, right?

And that’s where all these scars and bruises come into the picture.

Everything else gives me nothing, no sense of accomplishment or purpose. I’m just an emotionally vacant hole, and I’m backhauling in all the bullshit I can find in a piss poor attempt to feel full. Of course, that’s not how anything works, so nothing gets better, and I’m still a husk of a human. Is it so strange that I would turn to self harm in this situation? To me it feels like the logical conclusion. I need anything to wake me up, even if only for a few moments. The edge of a knife against my wrist gives me the rush I need. It’s a sharp pain that quickly fades, but the ridges that decorate my skin will tingle for about an hour. I can extend that feeling beyond that initial hour with a little bit of pressure. A few quick punches right on top of the cuts really helps to wake up those nerve cells. If I can keep it going for a solid 5 minutes, all of the skin around the cut will become a marbled mess of black and blue, and the cut itself will widen up a few centimeters, so the blood will keep flowing and flowing and flowing. By the time the bleeding has stopped, and I’ve cleaned myself up in the shower, the sight of my fucked up body in the mirror is more than enough to draw from me some genuine, untethered laughter. I mean who wouldn’t just lose their shit if they looked like this?! Both arms, from the shoulders to my fingertips, are patchworks of bruises and bright red lines. One glance and it’s so fucking obvious how much I deserve to look like this, or even worse. And I latch onto that thought, because I could look worse, right? My hands still work, which seems sort of fucked up, considering what they just did to my arms. So I bury those smartass hands in my bedroom walls. But my legs are also working just fine, having walked me from my computer chair, into my kitchen, and back again. They are accomplices to this travesty! This crime cannot go unpunished! So I light up a few cigarettes, using my legs as ashtrays, putting out the final dot of heat on my ankles and thighs. And yet I still feel like I’m forgetting something; and that’s when it hits me! I still have lungs that keep pumping me full of life-giving oxygen, and a stomach that continues to try and break my belt with its constant need to expand! But worst of all, I still have this heart, beating away, pushing blood through my veins even as I try to force that blood down the drain! I still have this heart!!!…. This heart…. That feels like lead…. This heart that can’t seem to carry me anywhere, and so I find myself leaning on the shoulders and ideas of others to carry my things, things I should be able to carry with my own strength…. This heart that has nothing left beyond the basic, barbaric function of keeping me alive, even if the rest of me is begging for it to fucking stop….

Well, I can take some pills to turn my stomach into knots that will surely come back up my throat and all over my toilet. And those same pills will grip my muscles, drying out my mouth and making it harder to take any sort of breath, so my lungs will be screaming at me shortly. But my heart? What can I do about my heart? It’s the one responsible for this mess, more so than anything else. But what can I do? It’s getting late, and I can feel the rest of my body shutting down. At this point I can only hope this isn’t going to be me simply falling asleep. I have to hold out hope that I finally did enough, that my heart got the message loud and clear. I have to believe…I’ve finally paid enough…to earn a little bit of peace…

But this was just another normal week for me. I’ve done this for 6 years now. And yeah, I understand that what I’m doing isn’t exactly “healthy,” okay? I can comprehend that the momentary sense of euphoria is the result of a release of endorphins in response to the pain.

But I can’t stop.

I could never stop.

Until my heart can catch up to the rest of me, I’ll ever be able to stop.

So I’m just waiting for that moment.

When I can finally, finally stop…

Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“With nothing to keep me grounded, all I can do is drift towards the Sun, waiting for gravity, or at least something like that.”

When gravity fails you don’t fall, instead you drift away into the sky as the heat from the sun increases to give you the world worst case of sunburn, and so you are left waiting as you drift, waiting on anything, something, to come save you. Now, replace gravity with love and the same rules apply. So I’m just waiting, with a sunburned back, on something to save me…

It starts out so simple, just a force of nature, just the gravity that keeps us all grounded; that was his love for her. Is it stupid to have love on par with such a basic force of nature? Well, take it up with God if you’re pissed about it, cause that’s just how things are.  

It ends, and so it turns bitter, and it all feels like it was for nothing, like you gave it your all while they…holy hell, why did you give them everything if they couldn’t give you a single damn thing, not even one word, you were worth one goddamn word, anything, something… it was all for something, right?

Well, they haven’t been here for awhile now, but that touch hasn’t quite faded yet; it haunts everything, every new meeting, every new experience is somehow still touched by her; she’s not there, but he still feels here memory, as fresh as a sunburn at the end of July, roasting every day throughout August to ruin a perfectly good life.

So is anything waiting for you now? Is someone waiting to save you, or is someone waiting for you on the other side? Is God waiting for you to ask for help, or waiting for you to give up? Waiting is just an excuse, like everything else, but it’s the only thing keeping you grounded – and so gravity was replaced with a tainted love that burned into a bitter something, a something so strong not even years could erase its touch, and so the burns never healed, and time stopped because you stopped it, all of it, and now you are waiting for your time to start again…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“Heroes come in all shapes and sizes. Most will fight to selflessly serve others, but there are also heroes who only help others because they think that will somehow save themselves.”

I’ve felt the weight of broken men against my chest. I’ve watched as they cried until they had nothing left, collapsing into my arms and letting me guide them into a rocky slumber. I’ve steadied the shaking hands of terrified children. They were small, but the fear in their eyes was big, and it threatened to swallow us both whole. I let my heart break in silence, doing my best to give those kids every ounce of my warmth, never letting my smile waver, because that was all I could do for them. I’ve touched the bruised faces of women who did nothing wrong. I’m only trying to help them, to clean their wounds, but it’s hard, because no matter how slowly I raise my arms, I can see their spines clinch, their eyes narrow, and even the weight of the air around us becomes a mass of chains, so I can never have a delicate enough touch to give these women even a moment of peace. And I’ve watched my own life collapse from the pressure of wanting to only save others. I knew where I was heading, but I was determined to save them, at least one of them. If I could save even one of them, I could have saved myself… I know I could have done it, I just needed that proof… but maybe that’s why I couldn’t do a damn thing for any of them, because I was never sincere. I wanted to save them, but only for my own selfish reasons. So of course I couldn’t help them. So of course I’m still breaking. It all makes perfect sense. In the end, it was all for nothing. Everything I did was for absolutely fucking nothing. I should have known better… I shouldn’t have fucking bothered… I should have trusted in my own judgement and saved myself this pain… I should just fucking die.  

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I wanted to give you the love I thought you deserved, and everything else…I figured that was the price I had to pay… for thinking I also deserved my love…

We thought we were floating

Amongst the clouds,

But when our fingers

Began to sink into

Their white underbellies,

We understood.

 

The air was smoke,

Born from a warmth

We mistook as the sun.

It was just another fire,

Another wasted

Spark of romance.

 

It turns out love

Can feel an awful lot

Like burning alive.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“I am empty, but oddly enough, this emptiness feels heavy…it feels so damn heavy.”

I can’t cry anymore. I used to cry driving home every day. I used to cry in the shower, and when I laid down for bed. I turned to drugs and alcohol to numb my mind, so I wouldn’t have a free thought left to drift towards my unpleasant past, or at least the unpleasant past my depression had formed in my head. I cried for a myriad of reasons. I was sad about where I was in my career, feeling like a failure compared to my friends and family. I was angry at my body, because I couldn’t force it to do anything I wanted, yet it forced bite after bite down my throat until I ballooned into a 200lb ball of blubber and despair. I was anxious around anybody, even people I had known all my life; I felt everyone judging me, even though they only wanted to help, and I couldn’t stand feeling so pathetic. I raged on the weekends, wrecking my apartment and getting reprimanded by my landlord. I became a hermit after leaving work, ignoring my phone and burying my guilt in layers of unwashed hoodies, empty pill bottles and half-eaten pizzas. I was disgusted with myself for even trying to find happiness, giving into my desires and finding random partners for hollow sex. None of those were “good” feelings, but they weren’t nothing. I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t empty. I told myself I was empty, but I wasn’t empty.

Today I woke up early. It was warm outside for an Ohio October day, so I took a walk. During my walk, I watched the sun break through the trees lining my street, and I saw kids standing on the corner, waiting for the bus, and at least 3 joggers passed me over the course of 10 minutes, and 2 dogs were being walked, and lawn care providers were beginning their days, and when I made it back to my apartment I realized I wasn’t a part of anything. Things were happening all around me; life was happening, but I wasn’t a participant. I saw everything from the outside, because none of it meant anything to me. I should have been upset about this, but I didn’t feel anything. I thought I’d be mad at myself, but I didn’t care. I thought I’d be sad, realizing I had no place in this world, but I didn’t care. I thought I’d swallow a bottle of pills, drown myself in a cold shower, and text my boss an excuse as to why I wouldn’t make it into work this week. But I didn’t care.

I couldn’t feel anything. I could see all the same things, draw all the same conclusions, and land on the appropriate emotion I should be experiencing, but I couldn’t touch those feelings.

I often thought I would end up in such a rage I would accidently throw myself off my balcony, or make a cut so deep I would bleed out in my bathtub. I thought I would feel so sad I would swallow every pill in my cabinets, and let those little medical wonders take me away to a new Hell. I thought I’d drink until I couldn’t speak, and try calling him again, hoping that after all these years he might pick up, just so I could hang up the phone the second he said hello, and a split second later I would put a bullet in my brain without ever telling anybody goodbye.

I thought I would die from those feelings, that all the sorrow and rage would drive me into a corner until I had no choice but to end it all. But I never did. I kept on going, and those feelings kept on flowing through everything that I did. I wasn’t empty, but I was being hollowed out. It took years and years, but I finally see what the end is.

I felt so much that all I wanted to do was die, but that was rooted in a desire to escape, and I wanted to escape because deep down I wanted to live. Now, I don’t care if I die, and that’s rooted in a lack of any desire to live. Dying isn’t an escape, it’s just another path, another way to reach the finish line. I could do it 5, 10, 50 years down the road, and it wouldn’t change a thing. So why bother? It doesn’t matter. Today is as good a day as any, so why not now? Why not make today my final day?

It doesn’t matter, so I might as well just die.