I remember the day I had a breakdown right in front of my mother.
So there I was, somewhere in the middle of a December afternoon, eating a nice meal while watching a really funny episode of The Big Bang Theory. Penny was unfortunately caught in between Sheldon and Amy’s awkward date, just as Howard had just accidentally gotten a robot hand stuck in his junk and Leonard and Raj were jerking him around (pun very much intended). I had been clean for over a month then, and I was rather bubbly and fervently hopeful that I could last until the end of the year and also hopefully carry it over all the way to next year and beyond. Things were fine and I was content in my quaint personal bubble of space, that is, until my mother decided to intrude upon it and pop it effectively.
There she came, parading in ostentatiously like she owned the place (well to be fair to herr, she did partly own it) as she grabbed the chair next to me and sat down. As usual, I didn’t acknowledge her existence and carried on with my life, munching on food, occasionally snickering at Howard’s helplessness and Penny’s exasperation. But upstairs, things were getting louder and a situation was drastically escalating and coming to a head as my two bickering sisters shouted at each other over some petty problem, most likely about someone borrowing someone else’s clothes without permission or whatever, or something else just as equally-stupid as that, because they’re but mere simpleminded troglodytes who squabble incessantly over articles of clothing like that even mattered in their lives or everyone else’s. I didn’t give much of a crap, I mean I was used to the noise of a thousand screeching amps that rivaled their maundering and sounded far more mellifluous than they are. But then, boom, my mother, ever the stand-up comedian and right on cue, said something incredibly insensitive that snapped my full attention to her.
“I get what you mean, Allen. With a family like this, I would slit my wrists too.”
Real classy. Real frank. Real goddamned dick move. Honestly, it wasn’t the first comment she ever made about my little transgression, but it was the most blatant and painful one, and it made me snap. I immediately slammed (yes, slammed) my laptop shut, stormed upstairs, and threw myself on the bed. And then I cried. Like a fucking idiot with stupid unresolved issues, I cried over such a petty unreasonable thing because I’m just a goddamned pubescent drama queen like that. And apparently my breakdown was getting a little bit too loud for my liking, because there my mother went, barreling up the stairs and zipping up to my side, radiating cloyingly saccharine concern, playing the fool as if she didn’t cause the fucking mess that I was. She asked me what was wrong, if I needed help, or medication, or if I needed a doctor, blah blah blah and all the mouthbreather’s words echoing diluted emptiness. I wasn’t surprised. After all, I had never let my facade slip before, in all the six years that I’ve had it. Literally no one in my family had seen that side of me before, that meek, sobbing, sniveling, depressed, pathetic creature wallowing slathered in his own tears and crying like a shitfaced twat. I was just careless this time. I didn’t mean to. But there was no going back. The damage was done. Of course, I just ignored every question she had to ask me, because we’ve never talked about anything this serious before anyway and what was the fucking point in starting now? What can she do to help anyway, when she’s done nothing but the exact opposite? I immediately stopped crying, and I just stayed there in that semi-foetal position, covering my red face and trying not to clear my throat or sniffling even though my nose was getting pretty stuffy, and shrugging her pretentious hand that just reeked of sanctimony off my shoulder. It was like that for a solid five minutes, before I finally felt her go and leave me the fuck alone, good riddance.
I slowly recovered from my sudden turmoil and wiped the shit off my disgusting face, and proceeded to go downstairs and get back to my show. But I wasn’t entertained. I didn’t feel like laughing anymore. In fact, the sight and sound of slapstick and laugh tracks sickened me physically. I was just so blank and numbed-out and fucking tired of it all and I can’t do jack shit about it, so that I went ahead and do what I do best. I wrote a bunch of hurtful self-deprecating things of malevolence towards my callous fucking family and maudlin confessions of severe-self hatred. About how the only promises I had to show were the ones I never kept, how it always ended like this anyway and I didn’t know why I even bothered to change, how I’m so pretentious and nobody gave a shit about the things that I felt and wrote anyway, how I want them all dead, dead, d e a d, how I want myself dead most of all. Triggers were pulled, bullets were shot, I was hit in fatal areas and sustained unhealing injuries, and unbeknownst to me, some shrapnel bounced off and actually carried over to others, unintentionally wounding them as well. But I didn’t know. I didn’t fucking know shit about it. If I did, then I wouldn’t have found myself sinking rapidly in an even bigger mess that I couldn’t flail out and escape from anymore.
After I exhausted my fingers on the keyboard and filled up about fifteen or so pages of Word, most of which I never really did post anywhere and never really will reveal because they’re just 100% quality content like that (*Sheldon voice* Sarcasm?), I was done being distractedly rational and it was time to get back to the blades. OoOoOoOoh, rEaL eDgy brooOooOOo, you goad mockingly, but go to hell and bite me, I’m simply saying it as it is. Goodbye clean streak, you have been fun while you lasted, but good things never fucking last, and I learned that the hardest way. But slash slash slash, never mind the obvious details, I’m pretty sure ya’ll are getting real jaded with all that natter so I’ll kindly skip over it; and an hour later, therein sits a proud paling painter with a horrible grotesque masterpiece, if you may pardon the unnecessary grandiloquence. Sixty-eight cuts all over my arms and legs, and I don’t even know why I was counting them. I’m just naturally pathetic and disgusting and bored like that, I guess.
After which, I washed my face and my skin, took deep breaths and closed my eyes to finally compose myself, and I had my earphones plugged in and was going to zone myself out to earsplitting music screaming fuck the rest of the world and telling me that I’ll be alright somehow, literally the only things that were keeping me alive at that point. But then I suddenly heard my mother underhandedly whispering upstairs to my siblings about how poor Allen cried his eyes out and that something was seriously wrong with him and they don’t know how to deal with him, and it made me feel more derisive amusement than anger. Sure fuckers, just gossip and chatter among yourself ignorantly because that’s all you can do, brag endlessly like you can somehow solve this puzzle, like I’m just a nice little mystery wrapped in a pretty pink bow, ready for you to figure out and turn into a masterpiece. I mean bitch, what the fuck can you even do, breathe at me? And then you’ll think I’ll somehow magically transform into one of you, you happy little munchkins who look at the world everyday with much love and vigor and say “oh my, how grand!”, with a biased mindset and will mercilessly brainwashed into your cruelly ironic family manifestos? Because I would rather kill myself than to force myself to fit into your square ideologies that you shove down my throat that make me choke and retch.
Pardon this rant. Honestly, I don’t really know why I’m writing this down. Mostly it’s because I need somewhere to vent, and this is the only place where I can clear up misunderstandings and elucidate things to those who will never give me the chance to explain, and this is simply the closest thing I have to making them listen to me. Also, my anxiety attacks have been growing worse and more frequent as of late for some reason and it occurs at the worst possible times like family dinners outside, and my family is giving me shit for wasting food and being so out of it and calling me a “downer” and a “killjoy” (and not the cool MCR kind either) and is basically downright pissed at me for having a dysfunction that I cannot control even if I badly wanted to myself. I even got screamed at by my older brother in the middle of a mall with a very verbatim “fucking bitch” for accidentally wearing his clothes without permission (seriously, what is with these vain assholes and their narcissistic obsession over clothes?!), which is the most conversation he has ever had with me in my almost 18 years of living with him and I could say from experience that I would rather he shut up and never speak to me or acknowledge me ever again, and I’m so glad that he’s back in his college dorm now so I don’t have to put up with his obnoxious selfish douchey ways anymore.
And I never really talk about my family directly, do I? It’s just dirty potshots every now and then dressed up in syrupy words that obscure the true intentions, but now it’s time for me to stop lying to myself and sugarcoating everything, and wow do I have so much shit to say that I’ve been straining to keep in all this time, and see how it all comes overflowing out of me right now like burning magma from a volcano. ‘Cause this goddamn family ain’t all it’s painted out to be. They can be a bunch of wretched, pretentious, arrogant, self-absorbed pricks that sometimes, a very tiny sliver of sometimes, are okay and I can tolerate, but they’re so problematic and insufferable and most of the time I can’t stand them at all. Believe me though, when I say that I have tried reasoning with them. Today I even straight-up told them upfront that I was feeling anxious back then and tired not really right, but they just sneered at me, blamed my faulty circadian rhythm and health habits, and finally went straight for the jugular and condescendingly suggested “then you shouldn’t have come with us then”. Wow, real fucking helpful guys, I’ll keep that in mind. If they can’t understand the simplest of explanations all shacked out for them in layman’s terms, then I don’t know how to put it in terms that they could fully understand, and I’m just about done trying. Disown me please. I don’t care anymore.
It’s my father’s death anniversary tomorrow. They’re planning to go to church and eat out at some fast food chain after, and I’m going to use the tireless excuse of “we have research tomorrow all afternoon” (in reality I’ll just be hanging out at the library all day) to get out of it, because I don’t want to be there, and if they don’t want me there, then it’s best that I do them a favour, get out of their way and let them revere themselves shallowly over their illusion of a “complete happy family”. They’re all slowly pushing me away, and I’m withdrawing in return and pulling myself further from them because that’s what they ultimately want anyway. Sorry dad, but shit’s screwed since we lost you and there’s no changing it anymore. I always tried to convince myself with the reasoning that my family isn’t that bad compared to all the fights and dysfunction and domestic abuse that other families receive on a daily basis, but worst or not, they’re still a terrible bunch making me suffer a lot and there’s really no making that better.
And as a final unnecessary thought to lighten up this…whatever this is, just today, I accidentally dropped my green pen in the middle of the highway while crossing the street and it mercilessly got ran over by vehicles. I could do nothing but watch helplessly in horror as it cracked audibly and shattered into a million tiny plastic pieces, the last thing I wrote at the back of my notebook (“search: half-life 2 cheats”) being condemned to be its final swan song. The now-deceased pen still lying sadly on the road, still being ran over by cars and buses and motorcycles without any remorse, was just a nifty representation of my life at that point. Things had started out optimistically great for that green pen, and hope was its word. That is, until, the ball had dropped. Or rather, the pen had dropped. If that pen thought it was going to live out a long fulfilling existence, well, shit happens and it got crushed. There is no salvation for the pen anymore. What a nice reminder for me. But oh well. Guess I could get a new one. Can’t do the same for myself, but hell, life’s just funny like that.
(And yes, I just soliloquised and lamented over a 20-buck pen. Get used to it)
In conclusion, fuck this family. Fuck the word and everything it stands for, because it’s all just a bunch of bullshit some sentimental sap came up with to enforce an outdated virtue that no one wants to follow anymore and to excuse unreasonable behaviour of class-act jerks whose degrading behaviour runs in the blood. Fuck my life. And fuck this year, screwing me over barely a month in. You keep doing you.
((We will now return to your regularly-scheduled program k thanks))