I’ve repeatedly created various depictions of my departure from this world, curious as to who would celebrate my existence, or if anyone would actually care. Sometimes I even conducted “experiments” as to how I could carry out such a desire of departure. I tried to jump down ten flights of stairs in elementary school. Cutting myself. Eating disorders. Overdosing. Knocking myself unconscious by repeatedly running my head into a locker. The very few individuals I provided such private thoughts to, always were inquisitive as to why I would do such things, or would want to see the self-created sunset on such a “gifted” and “vibrant” life?
They never could fathom the tears nor the pain; the constant flashbacks I have and suppress with self-medicated ways. Everytime I try to express my inner desires, the darkeness that wonders insides, I’m always left feeling stupid I bothered to voice such things to begin with, and even more self-destructive because no one, not one person, has ever bothered to ask “how can WE fix this?” I get it though, I’m my own soul and responsibility and if thou is broken, it is my job to grab the Gorilla Glue and “make it make sense.”
Yet here I am, shattered, scattered; wondering how can I possibly fix this fucking mess: ME. I can’t afford a therapist. Even with medical/health insurance. Medicine. Drugs. That’s the way to cope in this stage of unknowing what’s in the darkness. I know this feeling: darkness. It’s provided warmth in the past, so seductive and alluring. Familair. I knew it was only a matter of time I could keep it together: before we met again. So intoxicating to see the downward spiral of completely losing your shit; or at least feeling such a way. Feeling like if you could, you’d throw in the towel and take your ass beating like a champ. Do ME a favor.
It’s always me though. I’m always confused when people say such “good” things about me because all I’ve known was how much of a fuck up I am. An “asshole.” “Rude as hell.” “Pointed tone.” “Mr. Attitude.” “Mr. Self-Centered.” Yet no one knows the hurt I feel. Abandoned. Oblivious to my cries for help. My outpour of the hell that haunts my soul DAILY! The tears that refuse to pour because I have nothing left to give but death becomes him.
Yes, death will become him, and he will be reborn emancipated from the shackles that bound him once before. He will no longer have a past, a family, a belief that the world is filled with friendly individuals, fields of tangible dreams, or equality. He will become stronger than ever. Curteously ruthless. He will play the game and “checkmate” as many deemed adversaires as possible. He will, frankly, demand your discomfort. He won’t give a fuck about what the hell you feel like. Quite possibly, death will become you: because it became me a hundreds times, yet I still stand. Fighting tirelessly: for my place in this world that says I can’t fucking exist. I will exist as long as the higher powers deem, AND YOU WILL FUCKING DEAL!
- Alex N. Wanderland