ON MY PAST LIFE — In The Rearview Mirror ;0)


Reflection from December 29th, 2007 @ Age 26


I guess I want to kill myself because I feel like I lead a life that’s not worth living.  I have friends, but none in town.  None that call often; none it seems, that are all that interested.  Which is fine, I guess.  Except that it’s not fine at all because I’m not fine with it.  I’m sitting here on Saturday night at my parents house, alone, thinking about all the times when I was growing up in school wishing I could just sit at home on a Saturday night in peace—knowing that people aren’t looking for me or wondering why I’m not out.  I wished that because I could not face what was out there, and yet here I am now, sitting at home on a Saturday, and I can tell you for certain it doesn’t feel much better, sitting here alone with no one wondering or caring whether I’m out.  In some ways it’s for the better, because I have no money for to be going out with.  But in other ways it’s just fucking lonely as hell.

I woke up this morning despising myself.  I’m not sure why—I think I had vivid dreams last night, but of what I cannot remember.  I watched Meet Joe Black last night with mom and it was a pretty good movie, but that wasn’t why I was watching it.  I was watching it because the last time I watched that movie, I was lying in my bed with Dave at the Mogadore house.  I don’t know where my parents were at, or why I was allowed to have a guy laying in bed with me.  But I remember I had the most adorable little pink bra on and I was laying with Dave and our time was so precious to me because the boy had no time to spare.  Except that he obviously made time to spare for me—not a whole lot, but he did.  And more than that, he took himself out of his comfort zone, as did I, because being with one another was more important than being comfortable and always having things known.

I feel so stupid for missing him so much, and I can’t even really figure out whether it’s him that I miss.  I don’t even know if it was him that I loved, or if it was just an idealized idea of him that I loved.  I obviously was led to discontent—but I’m not sure that means it wasn’t him that I loved.  I guess it doesn’t really matter now, except that it does, to me—obviously and intensely and painfully it does.

I sat in on a meeting with Paul on Friday for two and a half hours, didn’t get out of work until 6:30pm.  Anyways, I sat in on a meeting with a girl who had a child and a husband who shot himself in the head at the beginning of November.  It was interesting to see the aftermath of an incident I have been contemplating now for quite some time.  Obviously I didn’t wish this event upon this girl; I didn’t even know this girl until last night.  I just think it was interesting to see the aftermath of an incident which I myself have been contemplating for some time.  It was unbelievable to sit in a room with a live human being, whose husband shot himself in the head.  In their house, he shot himself in the head.  She wants out of the house, but she can’t move because he left her and she’s in dire financial straights, and she cannot therefore leave the home that he took his life in. 

It made me think about how my parents would feel if I killed myself upstairs in this here bathroom.  They wouldn’t be able to leave this house either—at least not for a good while, and they would have to live here in this house, amongst the ghost of my life taken.

I don’t know why I talk like that…like that sentence I just wrote; I feel like I’m overreaching.  I don’t feel poetic lately, I feel like I’m overreaching.  I hate not having the words to adequately explain my thoughts.  I suppose I rarely, though, have the words that are adequate to explain my thoughts.  I feel better having written just now, but I still feel self-hate towards myself. 

Debbie and Uncle Ray and Billy and Amanda are coming to visit tomorrow and I find that I’m somewhat dreading their visit.  I mean I‘m excited to see them and I think it’s really nice of them to come all that way to see us, but I guess I just wish I had a picture perfect life to portray.  Instead I have no friends here, I don’t go out, I don’t know of places, I just feel empty and alone and I don’t want to show them.  Not like I have to, and of course we can always pass the time talking about them which would be fine, and I’m genuinely interested to hear from them.  I suppose I just dread having to share my life with others, especially in believing my life is so fucking lame.

John once defined lame as staying in—not going out, not drinking, just staying in.  Or maybe not—something like that it seemed, but it’s so hard to tell anyways.  Nonetheless, I don’t go out, I don’t have friends here, I have no money, I can’t buy new clothes, I have no money, I just stay at home and all I can do is hope that things will get better in the future.  But I’m so tired of hoping, as I’ve said so many times before—because hope doesn’t seem to be that which materializes.  At least not in this lifetime.  I can see how things could get better, but I can’t see them getting any better in the near future, and I can’t see how I’m going to make it through now to get to then.  I guess I’d be lying if I said things in my life weren’t any better now than they were before, but I think the things that I have in my life right now are the kind of things that get better with time.  Maybe not, maybe family doesn’t get better with time—maybe family is good all the time including now and I can’t see that.  But I do enjoy watching all these Netflix DVDs with my mom, and at least I don’t have to watch them alone.

I do remember Danny once telling me, that he went out on weekend nights so that he could say that he went out and did something—I guess, in case anyone asked.  Or maybe so he’d have something to talk with them about…I don’t know.  I remember how retarded that sounded at the time, but now I don’t think I’d be so quick to judge.  I don’t think I’d personally want to go out for those very reasons, but sitting at home and feeling lonely makes it seem not so bad.  But then I think about all the other people who I am sure are sitting at home and lonely this Saturday, and then that doesn’t seem like such a terrible thing either.

I write and I write and I think and I write and it’s all jumbled and mumbled and unclear.  It’s unclear just as the world is unclear, which I suppose after all is an appropriate reflection.  I don’t know what to think.  I think my life depresses me.  I think things could be a lot worse, and that my life depresses me, but that I have much to be thankful for nonetheless.  I hate feeling two opposite ways at once, but I can’t seem to escape the incongruity.


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