Depression

I have 113 subscribers on Youtube, 163 on Steemit, 55 on Twitter, and 1,831 on my Spotify playlist “Danger Zone”. I have maybe five friends on the internet, and maybe one in real life, but can I count the poor soul who lets me live with him for free?

I’ve never felt more useless or more expendable, and I base that off of my ability to generate money to pay my bills. I have twelve days to scrap together $273.77 for my car payment, and 27 days to get together $113 for my car insurance. That doesn’t even pay for my gas, or my rent, or my food. I never thought I’d become like my brother, sucking off the lifeforce of others to make a living. But I hate myself so god-damn much it drains me of any ambition, any passion, any feeling that I’d ever have even remotely positive. At this point I’d feel more comfortable pulling the trigger than working for something I hate.

My mother drained me financially of money I never had to begin with, my father abandoned me before I was ever born, my siblings always resented me for taking attention away from them when my ADHD, ODD and GMD was diagnosed at three years old. I spent the next decade of my life on a dozen different medications, uppers and downers, and was institutionalized twice during my childhood, the second time was voluntary because I thought living in a mental hospital was more stable than with my mother, sister and brother. I ran away when I lived with them because I felt so god-damn foreign and alien to them. I can’t write a single sentence of this without crying, snorting and gasping for air. My face feels numb, I’m the fattest I’ve ever been and it’s all just a negative feedback loop, where I just dwell on my failure and sadness, paralyzing me from reaching out towards the things I want to accomplish.

The only time of the day I actually feel happy is when I’m consuming drugs, alcohol and weed. It brings me to the level that normal people inhabit, the people who had normal lives, mothers and fathers, siblings that don't resent them and jockey for attention, opportunity that doesn’t require $40,000 worth of debt to even attempt.

My safe place is the music I listen to, Nine Inch Nails, Metallica, Disturbed, Sabaton, Kanye and Eminem, Rob Zombie, Celldweller, Ozzy Osbourne, Seether, Marilyn Manson, Kid Cudi, AC/DC, Nirvana, Queen, Chaos Chaos. I don’t feel like a useless fat bastard when I listen to them, I feel normal, I feel powerful, I feel like I’m greater than I really am.

And when I was younger, I felt like that when I wrote about what I was interested in. But the cloud that’s overtaken my life hangs over everything I once enjoyed. I’ve been playing video games the majority of my life, reading books, watching dark shows and movies, and it feels like a dead end. It feels like a self-fulfilling prophecy, while my brain obsesses itself over the worst aspects of humanity.

I can’t explain how much a bullet feels like the most satisfying way out. I know it’s stupid, I know it’s illogical, but it doesn’t change how I feel inside. I wish it was just as simple as raising enough money to survive, then I could focus myself solely on that goal and maybe actually succeed one day. But it’s far beyond that now, money alone won’t solve my problems. Even if I lost my lifetime of issues overnight, I’d still spend half of a lifetime paying back the people who helped me in my most vulnerable time of need; and those people aren’t even my blood relatives. They deserve the money more than I do, I know that for sure.

I started two different books, when I was younger and more optimistic. I couldn’t find a single person on this planet willing to read past page 30, when I had wrote to page 110. And of that tiny minority that did actually read it? No constructive feedback about the actual story, or the characters, or where the story was going or what it was trying to accomplish. No one put even a 1/10th of the effort I put into writing it, into actually reading the thing and providing feedback. The feedback most television shows and books and video games received, I would be overjoyed with 1/1000th of that. But I never really released my work to the general public, it never got that far in its development process. Maybe that’s because of the lack of support structure I had, or maybe that’s just my own personal failings. Maybe I’m just too worried about what other people think to actually finish my own piece of art.

Maybe I’m just drunk and I’ll regret ever writing this. I’ll regret ever sharing how I really feel, I’ll regret showing the world how I really think. And it’ll just make this life even harder, as if I needed that. Maybe I’ll overreact and make a split-second decision that’ll just make the world a worse place overall, but the silence tells me otherwise. The deafening silence that should really be a roar of support from the people who ‘love’ me. Maybe there aren’t any people like that left in the world. Maybe I’m asking for something I can never have.

Maybe this cry for help will lead to a wave of support. Or maybe it’ll lead to deafening silence like I’m used to. The sad part is the second option is far more likely, and I would really be putting my hopes up on an unrealistic goal by imagining a world in which the first option happens. It makes me feel fake to think that someone actually cares. How can I tell the difference between genuine care and the fake kind that doesn’t want guilt on their conscience? No one cares until you say something, and then they feel entitled to tell you what you need to do to get back on ‘the right path’.

How many people will respond to my cry for help? How many will actually care? How many people will attend my funeral? How many people will speak on my behalf, as I lay in a closed coffin, and how many will be able to accurately represent what I actually was? I’m leaning toward zero, because no one has actually cared to ask, or to delve deep into what I actually think or feel. No one has ever really cared about me, or what I think, or how I feel.

You know how I feel so sure about that? I don't get calls. I don’t get texts. My family doesn’t talk to me. They occasionally ask how I’m doing, but even then that’s the closest of them. I haven’t talked to my aunts, cousins, grandparents, uncles for years and years. They have me added on facebook, they could talk to me if they wanted to; the fact is they don’t. They haven’t once asked me how I’m feeling or how I’m doing, but you know what? Maybe I shouldn’t shift the burden to them. It’s not like I contacted them to ask them how their feeling. Maybe it’s because I don’t really care about them, and maybe it’s because they feel the same way about me.

Maybe it’s just the way things are when you’re a private person who doesn’t like to needlessly talk. Maybe I’m at fault more than any other person on this planet for my own failings; that would be the most accurate and fairest thing to say. Why should I get to shift the burden of responsibility onto people who were otherwise completely unaware? While I’ve been stewing in my own dissatisfaction for two decades? The truth is the blame lays solely at my feet. And that makes it worse; it means regardless of how smart I may be, I never learned how to ask for help.

I never learned how to ignore my own problems and help another person with theirs. I’ve been so self-obsessed with my own pity and self-hatred I can’t even look beyond myself. I expect someone to take pity on me and help me even though I don’t deserve it. And I hated the reality of providing for myself so much I chose death over a life I hated.

What path does that leave me? Going to get professional help, where I dwell on my own inability to succeed, and accept that I failed and any success I find later in life will live in the shadow of my massive failure, if there’s any success to find to begin with. And people who never cared to begin with telling me what’s best for me, meanwhile my own voice drowns in the crowd.

And there’s the alternative; I don’t share what I’ve written this night, and I read it a dozen times, and I never look at it again and bottle it up while I live a life I hate with every fiber of my being. The saddest part is I feel shitty, because there must be millions of people that sympathize with me, who have gone through worse and come out better for it. It really puts things into perspective for me, because it really reveals how weak I must be to feel defeated this early into life.

The saddest part of this melodramatic post is that I know it will provoke a fake response from 90% of the people I know, especially if I posted it on facebook. And on one hand, no response would provoke the same consequence as a thousand fake responses. So what do I really want? What am I trying to gain by writing this and posting it for the world to see?

I don’t know. At the end of the day, I just want to feel happy and keep writing, maybe make youtube videos one day, when I have my own private space to express myself. I don’t want charity, I don’t want the solution to arrive at my door unexpected, I feel like that would rob me of the valuable life experience of struggling bit by bit through life. If I ever received a hand-out, especially out of sympathy, I would view it as just another example of why I couldn’t make it on my own. I don’t want a go-fund-me to solve all my problems, as much happiness as that would bring me, it would be fleeting.

But at the same time, I don’t feel like I have the will to be the person I really should be. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to be the person that I really strive to be. How long can I pretend that I’m a better person in bad times? Where do I go from this point after I’ve carved my emotional guts out for the world to see? Simultaneously asking for a hand-out but resenting it at the same time; I can’t be happy, regardless if I feel success or failure.
I think about people like Total Biscuit, someone who pursued their dream and accomplished everything they set out to do, and still had their life robbed from them before their time. I think about how much they would envy me, for the simple idea of being able to live without threat of death, and I feel so defeated I want to end myself. I can’t get past how pathetic I am compared to them, by my own standards.

And now all I can think about is how pathetic I am for even thinking that someone would try to help me, after I’ve admitted how useless I am. It’s a never ending pity party for myself. Even if I was a good person how could someone justify actually liking me after all the shit I’ve said about myself?

I guess it’s in my nature. I guess this life I’ve been gifted was never really meant to be, I remember telling my mother she should have aborted me, and there’s no evidence to the contrary in my mind.

“Nobody belongs anywhere, nobody exists on purpose, everybody's going to die. Come watch T.V.” - Rick and Morty

I’ve reached the point in my live where I don’t want to watch T.V. anymore and ignore my problems. I feel like a Morty without a Rick. And it doesn’t help that even someone like Dan Harmon blocked me on twitter because I questioned his politics; politics I agreed with five years ago.

Every person I’ve ever respected I reached out to, and it’s not their fault that they haven’t responded; or when they did, they disagreed and blocked me. I just have myself to blame for that. Everything that’s ever happened to me, I can’t put that blame at anyone’s feet except my own, and it hurts to do so, but I know it’s at least honest and true.

I’ve always cared about the truth. Regardless of how much it hurt me to acknowledge it. So I guess at some point I have to accept the reality of my situation; I have to live a life I hate or end my life itself. At some point I thought I’d always choose life over death, but when I present myself with that choice, I lean toward death.

While my life lacks the basic ingredients to justify its own existence, I can’t help but drown myself in my own despair. If there was a pool of happiness that I could just throw myself into, I would in a heartbeat; sometimes that’s how I look at my gun.

Does it make me a bad person to want to do that? Should I be institutionalized? Should I be locked up because my life was sad? Should I be forced to live in absolute emotional misery so people who never really cared about me to begin with can enjoy my suffering existence? Because I know what ‘society’ would do to me if I made my thoughts public; throw me in the looney bin and drug me until I felt better, not with the drugs I know already work; they’d give me anti-depressants and turn me into a zombie, like I was when I was younger.

Because the reality of the situation is they don’t really care about me or what the best course of action is for me, they just want me to be quote unquote, “fixed”, so that I can be removed from the queue of their bureaucracy so they can ignore me again at the end of ‘it’.

So, if I’m so aware of my own problems and able to rational my way through what ‘should’ happen to me, maybe I have some type of idea that can fix me? Maybe I already have the solution in my head, maybe all of that is unnecessary and will only make my shitty life worse. Maybe all I really need is a hand-out, so I can find a little bit of hope and cling to it, so I can write the art I was always meant to make and maybe experience success on my own merits.

Or maybe the second I get something I didn’t earn or didn’t deserve, I’ll revert back to the same lazy, selfish person I’ve been for 22 years. Maybe it won’t help me at all and maybe even if it does, maybe I still don’t actually deserve it. Maybe I already exhausted everything I deserve.

Maybe I should end my life, if only to spare the world of the burden I represent as an unemployed, overweight white male. I’m not attractive, I’m not gregarious, I’m not even that interesting to talk to. McDonalds and Walmart raised me, and I have too much pride to grind away my soul at a place like that.

Pride goeth before the fall, as they say. I guess that means I was never meant for this place; never meant for this time in space. Maybe if I was born two thousand years ago in Greece, I could find meaning in dying on a battlefield, or a thousand years in the future, I could find a life worth living in exploring the stars.

Instead I’m here, in the easiest time in history to simply exist, and I’ve never been more miserable.