It’s getting too dark, the darkest it has been in months. I can’t bear it, I barely got through the day without killing myself. I wept and kept striking my own head, trying to force the thoughts to stop, until the physical pain could suffocate the psychological one. Crawled in a bed like a ball of fur, with an empty mind, wet eyes, sleeves covered with streaks of blood, and messy hair. That’s how I looked like for a couple of hours.
It’s the first time I’ve ever had an endorphin rush that didn’t work. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly a masochist, I’m only a man who tries to stifle his own brain. Until today, physical distractions worked. A brain can’t overthink properly when there are too many pain nerves to manage first.
Peculiarly enough, and it might sound inexplicable to you, but less than 24 hours ago I was having fun with friends. We shared jokes, listened to nice music, and introduced each other to other people. I was happy.
I feed on other people’s happiness. I vent out too much. I suck their joy, and leave them withering, depressed. In such painful days as today, I scream, and sometimes people answer my call. I always warn them, over and over, but some of them are just too stubborn.
And, being unfortunate enough, I fell in love with one of my saviors. And then I turned her miserable. And then I turned miserable myself. Again.
And then I wanted to die.
And then I didn’t.
It’s eternal. The pain is eternal. The loneliness is eternal. You’re confined to eternal misery, eternal failure. You’re destined to slowly burning out. Your future is staleness, necrosis of the brain, slackness of the limbs, and shortness of vision. And as you keep peering at it, a thick mist keeps on descending, quite too dark. You’re confined to failure, you’re confined to depression. You’re not voluntarily standing in the graveyard, you’re hammered too deep into its ground. You just stand there with nothing to watch but death, and you keep watching, for eternity.
“I do it because I have a mental disorder that makes me do it. Fuck you…
I fucking hate how you make me say things, how you make me feel like shit because of things I do, to which I always have an explanation, and I always explain, every single time, just to make you stop. But you never stop. You always keep demanding more. You always keep making me feel like shit and I always fight that that judgement back. But you know what? I think in the end you’ll realize that I’m shitty, maybe shitty in a different way from what you initially thought, but still shitty. I would have explained enough things that I’ll seem too miserable to you, too disfigured, too shitty to even deal with. I’ll end up unbearable, and that’ll probably be the time you leave, not because I’m intentionally sadist, but because I’m unintentionally psychotic.”
“You know how do people make secondary plans? Plan B, C, D, and so on, preparing for a “worst-case scenario”? I think I’m currently going through the worst-case scenario. I think that’s the worst it could possibly be. I’m being emotionally drained. I’m going through a psychological execution, a slow, monstrous, and cold-blooded one. I’m getting pulled over to the edge of suicide, with no safety net, no men ready to catch me at the bottom, and no loved one crying out loud “Come back, I love you.” I’m being pulled to death, and that, I believe, is the worst-case scenario.”
“Reading all those stories about people who’ve lost their loved ones, it’s a bit heartbreaking. However, I never cared about losing people, I never cared about death. What hurts is how loyal they are. What hurts is how much they loved each other, so much that when a novel is written about their story, it’s categorized as fantasy.
It hurts that I don’t have that person in my life. I don’t have that person I could trust, I don’t have that special human being whom I would miss, because I don’t have any special memories with anyone. Sometimes I envy those people, even though they might seem to be the most miserable of all. I envy their sadness. I guess the feeling of absolute emptiness I’m indulged in is way worse than grief. I guess.”
He kept scrolling through the profiles of MIT students, one after another, staring at their smiling faces, their shining achievements, and of course, the MIT logo on their profiles. They were all happy, all great. Each and every single one of them was a distinguished prodigy, and there he sat, in front of his screen, with some ordinary school notes that he has to study, the same notes a few hundred thousand students study at the exact same moment. He loathed himself. He felt that he was normal, and he loathed being normal, he loathed being average, he loathed himself.
He remembered one of those days, when he slept with a knife next to him. He couldn’t bear it, he couldn’t accept that he wasn’t any different. He didn’t want to believe that he’s just not as good as MIT students. He didn’t want to believe that they’re just more intelligent, and that there’s nothing he could do about it. He’d rather end his own life than believe that, for accepting being normal is the real death, while dying trying not to is a portal to an eternal life in the form of words written on pages side by side with those who will always be remembered.
The darkness started to fade out, and slowly appeared something that was even more dark, even more empty. It felt like a black hole. It just sucked his soul as he stood there, watching silently, as usual. He saw the layers of the world come off the peeled solid form of misery. A passive dementor, laid in front of him, perplexing him, hypnotizing him. It felt like a necropolis was growing inside him, spreading over all the green fields of growing happiness inside his heart, and killing all the colourful flowers, slowly, one by one.