Complaining

I want to get out of here. I don’t mean out of college, out of Longview, or even out of Texas. I want to get out of me. I don’t want to be someone else either. I don’t want to be. For most, this sounds like some crazy admission of an inclination towards suicide. Granted, I never would have considered it if I hadn’t been thrown from one shrink to another, all completely insistent that my goal in life is to end it. If I wanted to kill myself, I would have. It vexes me that someone would think me so incompetent as to stage a suicide equipped only with a pair of dull scissors. If I really wanted to kill myself, I wouldn’t have given the box cutter away to my friend. I would have used it on myself. If I were so demented as to be unable to guess where it might be best to cut, I could always utilize the amazing wealth of knowledge present on the internet.

They want me to be suicidal, they want me to be okay, they want me to be happy, they want me to get help. They all want a lot of things, and all of them involve me taking pills, not being able to sleep, spending hours on a shrinks couch and even more staring into the dark, praying for unconsciousness.

They all ask that I come to them when I'm struggling or when I'm in a dark place. How do you call your mother and tell her that sliding a blade across your wrist seems like a great idea at the moment. You know, for the sake of discovery and exploration. How well do you think a father would take it to hear you say that if you didn't wake up the next morning, it wouldn't be much of a shame. And of course, if you tell your friends that to live to be old seems like a nightmare, they don't take it lightly.

Because I'm sick, right? That means everything I say needs to be put up under a microscope and dissected until we get to whatever inner meaning they've decided they want to find. Then I get another physical, another shrink, another pill, another month of being stared at like I'm going to take down the whole world with me.

Hah. My life is too dreary at the moment. It's just pitiful to sit in the dark and try not to cry, for fear someone will find you and ask what's wrong. Sucks, eh?

I should just stick to fiction.