in a damaged
to keep this
I feel at home with shadows from ghosts of the living
I dance along to melodies as silent choirs sing
I’m sick of always giving when there’s nothing left to lose
That place we’re in is breaking, it’s trying to break me too…
Another day, another death.
I wake up, empty. Tired to the very bone, despite the fact that I slept for more than ten hours. The bed feels so cosy and comfortable, as rain serenades the windowsill and cold morning air nips at my feet, luring me back into a dull oblivion. As usual, I don’t want to live. I don’t want to get out of my bed and function mechanically, feeling nothing but nothing. But I have obligations. Responsibilities. Projects and procrastinated homework. So I get up sullenly and do what I can. Do what I should. Brace myself through the freezing shower. Dress up, scarf down breakfast, flag down a vehicle, go to school, socialise, do things, and try to make it through another day.
I started the day feeling shitty as usual, but halfway throughout it, things were looking up. I finished my crammed essays. I made some write-ups and started a story that I’ve been raring to write for ages. I got to catch up with my bands. I helped classmates out, actually recited, accomplished my quizzes and seatworks, actively participated in class. I finally got the thing I’ve been excited to receive the entire weekend. I ate great food and hung out and laughed with fine friends. For once, this was an honest to god day where I acted like a proficient human being, where I didn’t act up and was not my usual dysfunctional self. I did everything right.
So why does everything feel so fucking wrong?
I ended the day running halfway to my house, after having a complete breakdown in the middle of the public city and making people have to put up with the wreck that I am, and unnecessarily infecting them with whatever sad fucking irrational bullshit I was going through. I ended up nearly getting ran over by a bus, nearly missing my bus stop, fucking crying on a goddamn bus as guilt and goddamn pain internally ran me over. I ended up lusting for my vices for the millionth time, for a razor and a pill to infest my system, dying to relapse, living to die. I ended up empty, tired, and unfulfilled, the same way I wake up everyday, and the same way I am as I go to sleep.
I thought all this was supposed to make you feel stronger and make you desire for a greater life, not feeling vulnerable and washed out by the sun, sitting in your dark bedroom, anxious and wallowing, curled up in your own contrition and regretting everything, heaving emptily as everything drains the energy out of your existence. In the end, everything, all of it, writing, reading, songs, bands, fandoms, obsessions, friends, love, emotions, momentary bouts of faux happiness and vigilant but futile hope, it’s just mere distractions in the end. All just stupid petty little distractions to make it seem like there’s actually a chance to change. A chance for something better. A fighting chance for me.
But when all those distractions falter and fade away, I’m always left feeling ten, twenty, fifty times more miserable and pathetic than before; flooding at the gaps in my memory, making the permanent patches in my skin ache, intensifying the taste of the fucking bitter sick on my tongue. And I’m sorry. I want to be optimistic. I want to accept those butterfly pastel mantras and keep the faith. I want to keep on keeping on. I want to fight back and achieve something for myself. I want to make people proud, and make those who were thought I’d never be alter their perception. I want to see the glass-half full, not shatter it because I’m disgusted of my own reflection. I want to change. I want to believe.
I never wanted this. But somehow I can’t do jack shit about it. The only change I can see in myself now is that I’ve become more shameless, more degraded, and more screwed up than before. Anxiety, harder-hitting depression, cutting, drugs, invalid pain, panic attacks, mental breakdowns, bad decisions, I am a picture-perfect smorgasbord of everything that should never be put together. And now I don’t even bother hiding it anymore. I’ve given up trying to counter it. I’ve given up. I’ll always be cynical, and I’m screwed in the head and all fucked-up. Life feels like a constantly looming death sentence, and I want to be my own executioner. Nothing changes. Everything stays the same.
And if things went the way they were supposed to be, and I acted properly, did things right, played by the rules for once, and lived a normal, happy, fulfilling day, and the ultimate end of it all is feeling exactly the same as when I do the exact opposite, feeling that same crappy screw-all depression running through my failing system and ruining everything for me, then fuck it, what’s the point of even trying?
Why should I bother looking for something that isn’t even there?
I built these walls to keep the outside world from me
And I’ll fight to stay in the hell of my own mind
It’s safer on the inside, underneath where
You can’t ever get to me…
and my writing
off it melts
of past reverie
what used to
be a perfect toil
now is reduced
to wasted oil.
I don’t deserve this, any of this, all of this.
It’s been a spine-crushing, mental-breaking, emotionally-draining day, and I’ve been nothing but empty and depressed, emotionally compromised, and I’ve done a lot of idiotic, harmful things to myself that might get my body to god knows what state, and will surely get me shipped straight to a psychiatric facility if anyone in the nearby vicinity of the household found out. But nay, the troubles did not end there. They carried on all the way to tonight, where I proceeded to nearly give a friend instant myocardial infarction, and most likely ruined the rest of their day by not replying to them for 12 hours, when they probably already thought I was lying in the hospital unconscious, or worse, bleeding out and dead in my room.
I also somehow unintentionally forced another to shove the massive screaming elephant into a contained white room and fucking blow it up with fireworks, leaving a splattered mess of red everywhere that I can’t ignore or clean up. And what did clever old me do? Wallow ignorantly in the viscera and splash around it, as if I couldn’t exacerbate the damage any more than I already have, tasting acrid iron and bitter copper on my tongue, the metallic scent wafting overpoweringly strong, and pretended that the person who lit the fuse was not standing in front of me, and I’m getting guts and blood all over them, the very same guts they had in order to do such a sort of unprecedented thing. I acted like a coward and ran with my tail between my legs in the face of a braver light, and I’m not fucking proud of it.
Firstly, here’s a very much needed—yet all the same sincere—thank you for the scant number of people who know they damn well earned it. Thank you, a disgustingly-overused and horridly-cliché phrase that I could neither express eloquently nor enough. It helps, really, despite the fact that it goes against everything I usually say, about motivation, and fuck, they don’t even know how much it all means to me. It’s just always so fucking gratifying to find out just how much people care, or even just to know that there are people who care, and highly unsurprising to find out how many so-called “friends” simply don’t give a rat’s ass whether you tap dance your way off a building rooftop or contact incurable cholera and die a slow, painful death.
But then again, the fault has always lied in me. I was not built for a sense of human synergy, I have dysfunctional social relationships, somehow I’m too blinded and can never read the actual lines, and I’m too desensistised and incapable in sensing the signs and feeling the atmosphere. I’m not normal. I’m guarded, defensive, cynical, manipulative, a chronic liar, an absolute jerk, and I’m just listing off the least deprecating qualities of myself here. Unfortunately, with such traits, there are always those who I accidentally run over without stopping to see the red light, so it’s always a big revelation to me to discover that there are people who actually stick around with me despite my inane insufferableness.
So there, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never speak about my problems and what’s bothering me because I don’t want to bother anyone else, then expect you to give a damn about my superficial issues and pathetic angsty dramaticness, like you don’t have enough of transgressions of your own already. I’m sorry I shut everything out when things get too sentimental. It’s not because I don’t want to show weakness and expect you to do the same, it’s not mainly because I don’t know how to handle it, but it’s because I just don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve your trust, your comfort, your honesty, your sympathetic words, I don’t deserve to see the deeper side of you that no one else has dared swam into. I’m total fucking arsehole, douchebag of the year awardee, and if I get abandoned, it’s not like it wasn’t coming for me anyways. You really don’t have to exert effort and emotion on someone that’s not worth your time. You have better things to do. You have other things to change. You have your own chaos to arrange. You didn’t have to. You shouldn’t have to.
Despite the outer façade of shallowest self-pity, I pray and repeal on the contrary. These are nothing but stupid little realisations and actualisations that I believe, assimilated and programmed in my clouded, shitfaced, oxygen-deprived brain after extensive hours of overthinking about it. I don’t deserve good friends. I don’t deserve cheering up and ice cream and bunnies and rainbows. I’m undeserving of absolution. The suffering, I was truly asking for it, but not even God should grant me the peace of mind I don’t deserve. I’m not meant to be fixed. I can’t be. That much, I know.
I’m too selfish to deserve selflessness.
we both smile
to be okay
the other one
if it hurts me
this much to
then it’s no
wonder i don’t
do it as much
as i should.