Warning: The following story, if it can be classified as such, is highly unconventional (you’ll understand if you decide to read it), although I believe that the message it tries to convey comes across more effectively this way. It contains coarse language and sensitive subject matter. Furthermore, it is purely fictional, and in no way reflects my life or expresses how I feel.
Please, tell me what you think...
KILLING ME
I don’t really talk that much. I prefer to write. I think I’ve written more words than I’ve said in my entire life. Not that I’m any good at it, though; it’s just easier.
I have time, for one thing. I can spend hours writing and making sense of my thoughts, but sometimes it’s just so hard to get my damn point across when I’m talking. It’s always been that way. If you’re right-handed, and you can, like, paint pictures with your right hand, why would you try it with your left? So then you keep doing everything with your right hand, and eventually you realize how fucking useless you would be if, say, your right hand was mashed up in some freak car accident. That’s what it’s like to me with writing, if it makes any sense. Just give me some time, and I can paint some grisly shit with my words. I just haven’t practised enough with oral communication than I should have, I guess, and now this is how things have turned out. I envy all the ambidextrous bastards out there.
But, like I said, it’s just easier. I mean, I’ve been getting more and more crap to write about every single day. I’m kind of going off on a tangent, here. I know that, right now, this may not be making a lot of sense to you. This would be a lot simpler if you’d read my journals.
I started keeping those journals in the ninth grade. It was actually my high school agenda that I was writing in. I mean, I did pay for it, and never bothered to take note of the homework, so I had to figure out something to do with it. So, yeah, I turned it into a journal, and I wrote down all the shit that happened every week. I did the same thing with my agendas for the next two years, so it was really no surprise when I saw all the “needs improvement” under “homework completion” on my report cards.
Now I’m obviously not going to tell you all the details, but I think it’s best if I tell you at least some of it, and put this into perspective.
First off, I’ve never really liked the fact that I’ve been born into a stepfamily. Sometimes, I wished that what’s-her-face had never left dad to begin with. I would never have been born, that way. It made everyone bitter when he married my mom, and put me at the receiving end of all their frustration. Well, mostly my step-siblings. No, it’s not that they were a pain in the ass or anything...but just because they were my half-brother and half-sister didn’t mean that they had to treat me so indifferently! Sometimes, I wish that they’d been a pain in the ass, like normal brothers and sisters. I hardly even mentioned them in my journals because of just that – they were never really there for me; there was nothing much to say about them. I had to deal with everything by myself.
And why does dad have to be a fucking neurosurgeon? I mean, fine and dandy for him, but sometimes I wonder what things would be like if he were...a teacher, or a police officer, or I don’t know – anything that would have made him less of a pretentious jerk. I mean, with a background like his in biology, and chemistry, and who-gives-a-shit-istry, you’d think he’d be smart enough to understand that people are unique, and that he can’t expect every one of his kids to follow in his footsteps.
Sure, he’s been paying for our education. He’s been pushing us to try harder, to strive for excellence. I guess he’s just doing what he thought was best. He gave us all a chance to learn, but he needs to learn to give others a chance.
He doesn’t even know me. No one really knows me. I’ve never even had a best friend. I don’t know what it’s like to have that one person you can just go to, and say exactly how you feel, and describe every one of your problems, and still not feel like an idiot.
Instead, I have a bunch of haters. There’s this one girl...she’s the fucking protagonist of half my journals. I don’t know...it’s something about the way I look, or dress, or something, that she didn’t like. And if she doesn’t like me, then basically no one is allowed to like me. That’s the way it is. I never told anyone about this – it’s kind of embarrassing – and now I’ve endured her bullshit for almost two years.
There are other people, too, like her ugly troll boyfriend. He took one of my journals right out of my open locker, once, and never gave it back. He read it to a bunch of other people I didn’t really like, until they had laughed all the energy out of their systems. Then, he burned it.
After that, this bulimic chick he knew decided to spread a rumour that I was gay. It stuck.
There’s a lot more crap that I don’t want to bore you with. I don’t know what else to tell you. I mean, it’s all there in my journals. Read it yourself, if you even care at all. Besides, now that I think about it, I really don’t want to remember any of it.
I don’t know what made me think it, but for some reason I felt like writing in those journals and then hiding them under my bed would make everything go away. As if I could pull out all the memories from my head and throw them away into those notebooks, where I would never have to see them again.
I was wrong! I’m so stupid. It only made it worse. You can’t suppress this kind of shit...I learned that. A little too late, unfortunately. After watching those journals pile up over the years, it made me realize that I’ve been robbed of my life, and it’s been tearing me up for too long.
If you have a soul, then I know that this is hurting you...but it’s killing me.
I can’t imagine what you must be thinking or saying, if anything. But you have to understand, it’s just too hard for me to reach out to anyone. I wouldn’t know what to say to them, and I just couldn’t find it in myself to let them read my journals. I’m too self-conscious, and I’ve always been like that. I’m afraid of what people will think of me, so I just hide. And if I just kept bottling it up like this, trust me – I know I’ll eventually go out of my mind, and will end up hurting somebody. So don’t you or anyone even dare call me selfish after I’m gone.
All I ever wanted was to fucking love and be loved, and to make people respect me for who I am. Do I even have to say that? I mean, isn’t that what everyone wants?
People need to realize that everything they do and everything they say plants a seed in another person’s head. And when that seed grows, it’s either going to turn into something amazing and bear a whole lot of fruit, or it’s going to eat that person up from the inside out. And it may even end up devouring everyone else, too.
That’s it, then. People planted weeds in my head.
So, I have to do this. I’m fucking scared, but what else can I do? I don’t see any other way out. You probably disagree, but does it really matter? Are you even going do anything about it?
You can try and stop me, if you really care.
Sincerely,
~~~
