Reject

I heard something in a show. Probably watch too much shows. Actually, I know I do. I’ve spent my life hoping to be like the characters I see on tv. Popular, runny, nerdy, tough, hero, kind, romantic, a million positive characters that I’ve wanted to be, but its such a disappointment to find out I’m me.

But back to what I heard. It is that serial killers or mass murders usually go through a traumatic event, are socially awkward, and feel rejected by this world. I never knew why I felt so sad and under water until I heard that. The words just fit. REJECTED BY THIS WORLD. All I wanted to do is feel like I belonged. To feel part of the crowd.

DISCLAIMER: NOT a serial killer or mass murder. Just a reject.

Yet even when I’d start groups, plan events, or try my damnest; I’d mess it up or fade into the background. I don’t want you to think that its people’s fault its mine. I don’t fit any molds. The bullshit this world gives you about being an individual is a lie. No one wants to be different when different isn’t what everyone else wants. We want to be wanted.

When I type this out I think I’m just being stupid, but that doesn’t change how I feel. I don’t feel like I belong and I don’t want to be here. I’m married. I have a loving family. I have friends. I have people who care about me, but I don’t want to be here. Every day is such a damn burden. It is lonely. IT IS LONELY. ALWAYS.

I feel like I’m underwater; sometimes I get a breath, but it is not enough.

Struggling

We are all struggling, but some lack the ability to struggle with others. – Robert Joseph

I used to think those who committed suicide were selfish. That they didn’t think about anyone about themselves. How could they hurt all those around them? Maybe I was wrong. When something hits close to home it opens your eyes. I think depression removes your ability to struggle with others, and how are you suppose to beat something like that.

It’s human to struggle. To fail. To break. To lose. To Hurt. To be alone, but even in loneliness there are people who know they struggle together as weird as that sounds. Yet, when someone can only struggle on their own, they get trapped in this void. If they sit still in the silence they feel it grow. When they zone out in crowd they feel it’s soft ache. You try to fill it by helping other people in their struggles, and you may think I’m crazy to think the depressed look to help others, but I do. It brings them a joy, but it’s not enough because their insatiable struggle is still there.

How can they win? First is admitting to yourself and others it exists because if you don’t it will kill you. Next, is finding help. Even if you just start by calling this number 1-800-273-8255 which is the suicide prevention hotline. You might not even be thinking about doing the act, but knowing you are not alone can mean everything.

I don’t know if there’s ever winning. Nothing seems enough. I guess that’s why it’s a void, but there will be good days. At the very least always finish today.

A Poem About a Monster

(Strong Language and graphic)

It’s a cold silence that fills this room.

One that seeps inside my soul

With a weight no mortal should assume,

But it effortlessly swallows me whole.

I sit in the darkness of my mind and cry.

For a life that is as true as a lie.

I’m not happy. I’m not okay,

But round and round this game I play.

Don’t give a fuck. Hold back a care.

Look at all the people who aren’t there.

But that is the lie. People are there.

I’m the one who doesn’t care.

A piece of living breathing shit.

That’s compiled of corn, meat, and spit.

When I walk around, I leave this stinking trail.

Sucking sounds as each foot lifts.

Always growing quieter, as I turn tail.

Hoping no one ever catches a whiff.

For I’m the bullshit monster.

Soggy with piss instead of covered with fur.

I haunt those close to me.

Fucking up their lives and who they want me to be.

I write stuff so people will see,

I’m self-loathing, please feel bad for me.

This fecal line I craftily spin,

Is just another way my victims let me in.

I’m the bullshit monster.

Be careful how close you wander.

This is Breaking Down

I want to write something to change my own life. Nothing I’ve written has been for anyone else. I want praise. I want meaning. I want someone to notice me. I want some one to say I’ve been there. To say they understand what it’s like to be like me. Its all about I, My, Mine, and Me. I’m a selfish asshole who wants people to care, but doesn’t have time to care about anyone else. I want to say here, “I wasn’t always this person”, but that is a lie. Was I ever nice for anyone but me? Was God ever real or just a vise? Did I care only when it mattered to me? Convenience. A show. A fake. Me.

I’m a pretender. A type of person I shit on without realizing that person is me. I can blame life, people, circumstance, or fate; but in the end I’m to blame. I don’t finish anything, I just exist. I hate existing. Life isn’t suppose to be hard. It’s not suppose to be complicated. Everyone else does it, but I fuck it up. My whole life I’ve been waiting for something big, but never doing anything big. I’ve lost touch with so many people, and I only see how it effects me. Because I’m a selfish piece of shit.

Megan, the first girl I obsessed over. Is it where I fucked up? Obsession not confidence? A shy introvert who thinks having morals actually matters. A fucking loser who couldn’t talk to girls. I fucking hate that guy. I hate him, but now I’m this man. Fucking broken. A wreck. Not some wreck you can’t turn away from, but one that has been there so long you don’t even notice it anymore. Just junk on the side of the road.

What do I need? Maybe a new question.

For all who read this. Never become me.