I just want to lay here and be sad. It’s okay if I cry, right? They can’t see. They don’t want to see.
I’m so tired all the time. So tired and… uninterested? That’s not the word. I can’t think of the word right now. It’s like uninterested but even more uninterested than that. It’s what I am right now in regards to looking up that word that means more uninterested than uninterested.
See! It just came to me. And now I don’t even care to go back and correct my original statement and add it in where I intended it to be originally, if I had been able to think of it or hadn’t been too apathetic to look up what word means more uninterested than uninterested.
I hate myself. I really do. This isn’t teen angst crap. This is full on adult self loathing. I’m laying here rubbing tears from my eyes as I type this. I truly and honest-to-god despise the person that I am. I’m garbage. Trash. Is it any wonder society threw me away? I tend to get this way when I think about my (horrific) past or my (non-existent) future or even my (completely bullshit) present. Pretty much I get this way when I think.
When I think…
GODDAMN IT WHY COULDN’T I JUST BE AN ALCOHOLIC OR A DRUG ADDICT?! I’ve seen it work for so many people, especially in my family. I think some times that I could do it. I could be an alcoholic easily. It runs in my family. I’ve been told my father was one. I know for sure my mother is. In my mid twenties my sister actually called me an alcoholic-in-training because I can drink so much before it effects me. Strangely enough I have a high tolerance for alcohol but nothing else.
I could see myself doing it, I really could. Almost did. But no… I have to be the adult. I have to be the, apparently, ONE MOTHERFUCKING PERSON ON THIS PLANET who refuses to use substance abuse to hide from my problems. The worst drugs I do come from McDonald’s and Taco Bell. Terrible for you, sure. But really…
I don’t want to have to be the adult any more. I want to run and jump and feel free and if it takes downing a six pack or a few shots, why shouldn’t I? What is really stopping me? I know alcohol makes me feel better, lowers my inhibitions, greases my sociability wheels. It would be perfect. Robert used to be an alcoholic. We could drink together. Would be better for him than the meth he’s been dabbling in lately, that’s for sure.
How to start though, I wouldn’t know. Just go to the store and buy something I guess. Start small, a few drinks at home maybe, before working up to sitting on a park bench drinking out of a paper bag. Hobo city here I come! Find me some new friends to drink with. We could split a bottle of whatever terrible tasting crap just… just take it away. Take the thoughts away.
Fuck! I’m crying again.
I’m not going to do it. I know I’m not. It’s just not in my personality. My mother could do it. My siblings could do it. Even Robert could do it. But I can’t do it. Not because I’m better or stronger than any of them. But because, at the heart of it all, I’m weaker and I deserve to feel all of this. I don’t have the right to hide from this pain and anguish. I’m not a man. I’m a boy. A failure. A terrified child unable to do or deal with even the smallest of things. I am to be punished. I am to be beaten and flogged. And I am to feel every lash.
This is the me that I am.
This is the me that I chose to be.
I hurt myself because I deserve to be hurt. I did something or nothing wrong at some point to someone or no one and I need to be punished until I learn my lesson. Then I can stop. Then the pain with end.
It will never end, will it.