The End

 The End

Act I: Resolved

Working with headings now. Big time shit.

I hate myself and I want to be dead. I've written so many posts trying to dance around that sentence. I've dissected it again and again and every time I do this dumb fucking thing where I have to have some sort of resolution, y'know? I always gotta end my posts on a positive note.

'I've got this.' 'I've survived worse.' '[Insert realization here]'

I won't go so far as to say that's all bullshit; those were real thoughts and feelings and self-discoveries. They were just contrived as hell.

Not everything needs to have a resolution, because not everything can have a resolution. Not everything can lead to an end-point. Sometimes things just are, and you have to learn to live with them.

I've been treating my life like it's a game. I've doggedly pursued some essential realization that would fix my shit, like it was just a matter of taking the right path and doing the right things in the right order. I've been frustrated at every turn, never really getting 'better' to the point where I don't hate myself and want to be dead.

It's not just the dreams of success that I've been using as a cudgel. I've realized that I've been using dreams of being healthy the same way. I judge myself based on how far away I am from 'healthy,' and wouldn't you know it, more often then not I'm PRETTY FUCKIN' FAR AWAY FROM HEALTHY.

I get so sick of my shit. I get so goddamned sick of this constant back and forth in my head, this asshole cycle of realizing things, and declaring resolutions, and inevitably failing. Every time I complete this bastard circuit, there's another crack in my resilience.

'I failed to fix myself again.'

'Why can't I just be okay?'

'Why does anybody give such a waste of space a single moment of their time?'

'Look at you, you pathetic failure of a human being.'

'Stop fucking lying to yourself.'

'You're never gonna accomplish jack shit.'

'Your dad already killed you, and you're just avoiding the truth.'

'Why don't you just lay down and fucking die already?'

'Why do you bother getting up in the morning?'

'You know you're never not gonna be fat, right?'

'Maybe if you finally let yourself slip into a full-on catatonic state you'd lose some weight for once.'

'You know you have multiple medications that could lead to a lethal overdose, right?'

'It wouldn't be hard. Just fuckin' chuck your phone so you can't chicken out and call mommy like you did last time, and then swallow a bottle of pills.'

'I can't believe how much energy you've wasted thinking anyone would care about your writing.'

'You know that nobody gives you feedback because they don't care to read your shit, right?'

'It's so fucking hackneyed.'

'Dur, I'm having a hard time but it's okay because I'm strong and smart and blurdyblah.'

'You should all be so impressed with me.'

'Shower me with your validation as if I could ever possibly register it in my ruined fucking psyche.'

Act II: What You Want

Maybe I like to suffer, hm? Maybe I like to sit here and feel miserable. Maybe it's comfortable.

As you say, what the fuck else am I gonna do? Suffering is the only thing I'm demonstrably good at.

Maybe I'm too cowardly to kill myself. Ever think of that? Did it ever occur to you that if I had the will to do it, I'd have done it by now?

It's fun to pretend that I'm brave, and that I'm hanging on because I'm 'strong' and 'resilient.' It's fun to think that I've accrued any wisdom at all from my suffering, like my insights hold any value whatsoever to people other than me.

Well, I'm not brave. I'm terrified. I'm exhausted. Sometimes it feels like all I have are the lies I tell myself, and maybe I don't know what I'll do once they're gone.

I hate writing this shit. I hate this desperate expression of angst in the hopes that somebody will finally fucking understand that I'm not okay and maybe try to help me, even knowing how selfish that is. 

What the fuck is anyone supposed to do? What help am I looking for, exactly? Someone to make my decisions for me? Someone to pick up after me? Someone to tell me it's okay to go hide in a hole for another decade? Someone to tell me they love me every minute of every day?

Nobody can give me the thing that I'm missing. There is no work I can do, there is no realization I can have, there is no gesture that I can receive that will fill this hole. It's just there. It's always been there. It will always be there.

It doesn't matter if anybody reads the shit I write. It doesn't matter if people like me. It doesn't matter if anyone knows I'm suffering.

That hole doesn't give a fuck, and it never will, so why do I keep giving it so much of my time? Why do I pour so much of my effort into it? Why am I trying to feel anything other than what I feel?

Act III: Not Okay

I'm done pretending to have anything resembling an answer. I don't have any more pithy expressions of wellness.

Hi. I'm me. I hate myself and I wish I were dead, but don't worry because I'm too much of a coward to kill myself I guess? I desperate crave your attention, even knowing full well it won't actually satisfy my need for love because I have an underdeveloped sense of attachment.

I will never believe that I know what I'm doing, and I'll never believe anyone actually gives a shit without having to consciously tell myself it's true. It will never just be a thing I accept. It will be a battle every time.

I no longer care about being successful at anything. Rather, I no longer wish to care - I will absolutely care, and to a self-destructive degree. Soon as this is posted I'm gonna share it with people in the hopes that they tell me it's moved them or something. I'm gonna predict that at least one person will say it has, and that I won't believe them anyway.

It all feels so pointless. Fuck.