I’ve realized recently though, with the help of my counselor, my editor, my dad, and my online friends, that I am good at talking. Whether it’s blagging a fiver from my dad, landing interviews and writing jobs that I’m completely under-qualified for, boldly attempting (although often failing) to chat up girls, or selling double glazing for Zenith - I can talk. I can lie.
Accepting this, I don’t feel my ego swelling or my heart sinking with the usual disapproving resentment of such arrogant self-aggrandizing. I feel proud.
I can do the things I want to do with this skill, such as it is. I can live on the continent; I can apply for jobs, chat up girls, sell my own personal brand and feel completely at ease with myself. Just the thought makes me feel happy. I don’t want to die when I imagine this, I want to live.
So it’s time to do it, I’ve found what might make me happy and so I’ll leave. I want to wake up when I want, sit in a quirky French café and write on my laptop. I want to harass the girl at the counter for her phone number in my broken French and smile even when she declines, and I want to blag my way into the biggest and best situations imaginable. Why would I do anything I don’t want to do? Because “life isn’t fair sometimes”? Bollocks, life can’t be summed up some second-rate quote from a straight-to-DVD drama; it’s too vast to comprehend and too small to waste.
Monday, 25 July 2011
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
Part Three
I'm concerned that these 'parts' are becoming completely intangible, as they were intended to be read as one. I didn't post as one because I felt it made an unpleasant read, I'm hoping to find the balance between too much and not enough as I post more.
Bear with me while I do!
Part Three
I had the potential, IQ-wise, to become something decent enough to pay my way in life and live in relative comfort.
In accepting this, I’ve become a disgusting egotist. I’ve been told to accept it repeatedly, and now that I do, I’m even more unhappy. I dislike it. I don’t mind being a bit clever in some aspects, but I mind knowing I am. I hate myself for it in a way that I can barely put into words.
This expectation, the potential that everyone but me saw when I was young, has finally begun to make sense to me, but rather than free me it’s trapped me. I feel a self-loathing that never leaves. I’m utterly miserable.
I read back every word that I write, and I see smug arrogance, obscene egotism and a desperate need to assert my “intelligence” through my writing and into the mind of whoever’s reading. It’s like I think I’m some kind of troubled genius, a diamond in the rough, Will Hunting.
I’m not though, I’m of moderate intelligence and I’m unhappy. It’s simple.
All that realization does though, is raise more questions. If it’s simple, why am I complicating it?
As far as I can tell, it’s because I see things in a very black and white way. It’s a typically young and male trait, according to my doctor, so perhaps it’s unsurprising. Everything must have a solution.
I think about these things, and then I think of ways to end a misery I’ve found myself in. I think of suicide, researching some pretty easy and painless ways to do it, but I’m too scared. I think of running away, but I realise I’m too penniless for the train. I think of a relationship, but hurt is inevitable for everyone and I’m sick of hurting people that aren‘t me. I think of self-harm, but it’s a short-term solution to a permanent problem. I think of exercise, but I can’t motivate myself to run when I can’t even motivate myself to wake up.
I’m so scared that I’ll feel this for the rest of my life. Too scared to die and too scared to live.
Bear with me while I do!
Part Three
I had the potential, IQ-wise, to become something decent enough to pay my way in life and live in relative comfort.
In accepting this, I’ve become a disgusting egotist. I’ve been told to accept it repeatedly, and now that I do, I’m even more unhappy. I dislike it. I don’t mind being a bit clever in some aspects, but I mind knowing I am. I hate myself for it in a way that I can barely put into words.
This expectation, the potential that everyone but me saw when I was young, has finally begun to make sense to me, but rather than free me it’s trapped me. I feel a self-loathing that never leaves. I’m utterly miserable.
I read back every word that I write, and I see smug arrogance, obscene egotism and a desperate need to assert my “intelligence” through my writing and into the mind of whoever’s reading. It’s like I think I’m some kind of troubled genius, a diamond in the rough, Will Hunting.
I’m not though, I’m of moderate intelligence and I’m unhappy. It’s simple.
All that realization does though, is raise more questions. If it’s simple, why am I complicating it?
As far as I can tell, it’s because I see things in a very black and white way. It’s a typically young and male trait, according to my doctor, so perhaps it’s unsurprising. Everything must have a solution.
I think about these things, and then I think of ways to end a misery I’ve found myself in. I think of suicide, researching some pretty easy and painless ways to do it, but I’m too scared. I think of running away, but I realise I’m too penniless for the train. I think of a relationship, but hurt is inevitable for everyone and I’m sick of hurting people that aren‘t me. I think of self-harm, but it’s a short-term solution to a permanent problem. I think of exercise, but I can’t motivate myself to run when I can’t even motivate myself to wake up.
I’m so scared that I’ll feel this for the rest of my life. Too scared to die and too scared to live.
Sunday, 17 July 2011
Letter
I don't hate you, but I am angry. I'm not angry at you, I'm angry at just about everything.
Until the other night I'd only shown part of myself to you, it's still me, but it's edited.
I'm sorry, because I know I gave you little choice in anything, I know I'm difficult to speak to when I'm like that.
I'm so tired of people claiming to understand and appreciate how it feels. Whether they're correct or not, it's just not what I need to hear.
I KNOW I need to just... man up sometimes, but if I'm not doing so already then why would being told it change that? That's my view at the time of feeling those things I mean, not necessarily my view when I'm myself.
I'd had a lot to drink that evening and I'd taken sleeping pills, my pills are harsh and I tend to sleeptalk for the last 10 minutes or so before crashing completely. I wasn't sleeptalking to you, but I was certainly beyond the point of caring about you, and I stopped caring about myself a long time ago.
I hate to say this, because I DO understand that everyone has their own problems and hardships, but please don't underestimate how hard parts of my life have been.
Some thing I couldn't express to you at the time is my frustration at the phrase "everyone has shit to deal with." I still can't fully explain it, perhaps because my logic is basically flawed, I don't know, but here's my best shot:
When I'm depressed I don't care about ANYONE. I'm angry at the world for being such a hate-filled and cynical place, a place where people don't care. I know this is hypocritical, but I feel it anyway. Hearing that everyone else is unhappy on some level too doesn't cheer me up, it doesn't make me feel the world is a better place and it doesn't make me worry about them. It makes me angrier, angrier that so many people accept unhappiness like it's to be expected and that nobody cares.
This anger is what drives me in my work. I find it easy to blackmail people and hurt people and damage lives, because I can choose to stop caring when I feel like it. It's just easier to do that than have to feel the emotions related to causing pain.
Blah blah blah, I suppose.
I'm just sorry, and I hope you can forgive me. I miss your sexy face and smartarse comments, genuinely.
Chris.
Until the other night I'd only shown part of myself to you, it's still me, but it's edited.
I'm sorry, because I know I gave you little choice in anything, I know I'm difficult to speak to when I'm like that.
I'm so tired of people claiming to understand and appreciate how it feels. Whether they're correct or not, it's just not what I need to hear.
I KNOW I need to just... man up sometimes, but if I'm not doing so already then why would being told it change that? That's my view at the time of feeling those things I mean, not necessarily my view when I'm myself.
I'd had a lot to drink that evening and I'd taken sleeping pills, my pills are harsh and I tend to sleeptalk for the last 10 minutes or so before crashing completely. I wasn't sleeptalking to you, but I was certainly beyond the point of caring about you, and I stopped caring about myself a long time ago.
I hate to say this, because I DO understand that everyone has their own problems and hardships, but please don't underestimate how hard parts of my life have been.
Some thing I couldn't express to you at the time is my frustration at the phrase "everyone has shit to deal with." I still can't fully explain it, perhaps because my logic is basically flawed, I don't know, but here's my best shot:
When I'm depressed I don't care about ANYONE. I'm angry at the world for being such a hate-filled and cynical place, a place where people don't care. I know this is hypocritical, but I feel it anyway. Hearing that everyone else is unhappy on some level too doesn't cheer me up, it doesn't make me feel the world is a better place and it doesn't make me worry about them. It makes me angrier, angrier that so many people accept unhappiness like it's to be expected and that nobody cares.
This anger is what drives me in my work. I find it easy to blackmail people and hurt people and damage lives, because I can choose to stop caring when I feel like it. It's just easier to do that than have to feel the emotions related to causing pain.
Blah blah blah, I suppose.
I'm just sorry, and I hope you can forgive me. I miss your sexy face and smartarse comments, genuinely.
Chris.
Friday, 15 July 2011
Part Two
I have a cold, but I'm so hungover that when I sniff it up I can't even spit it out.
My mouth is so dry I dream of days when I could be spitting feathers.
Anyway, on with the self-indulgent explanation to an attention seeking plan!
Part Two
I’ve been told since primary school that I have potential, that squandering the intelligence that was assumed on me rather than learned by me was somehow wrong. “People would do anything to have what you have,” was somehow supposed to inspire me to exert myself, to try to live up to my perceived potential and achieve in a way that those poor unfortunate mortals couldn’t possibly do for themselves… I’d be a hero to the idiotic masses!
Or not.
No-one gives a fuck if someone clever becomes a great mathematician or something, the family will be proud and his friends will be impressed, but those left behind in the factory jobs and building sites would barely remember a name, let alone feel anything positive about it. Why should they? The mathematician's talent is no more valid than their’s just because a teacher told them so 10 years ago.
Imagine a plate of food in front of you, something I’ve spent an hour cooking just for you. Unfortunately, it‘s disgusting. You eat a little, to be polite, maybe you even have enough to fill you up… but I give big portions.
You’re on the verge of vomiting, you’re full and you’re not enjoying the taste, it’s a horrible experience.
“There’s starving kids across the world that would do anything to be lucky enough to be blessed with a plateful of food.”
Does that make you want to eat it? Does it bollocks. It doesn’t stop you feeling overfed and doesn’t take away the taste; it adds shame and guilt and nothing more.
My mouth is so dry I dream of days when I could be spitting feathers.
Anyway, on with the self-indulgent explanation to an attention seeking plan!
Part Two
I’ve been told since primary school that I have potential, that squandering the intelligence that was assumed on me rather than learned by me was somehow wrong. “People would do anything to have what you have,” was somehow supposed to inspire me to exert myself, to try to live up to my perceived potential and achieve in a way that those poor unfortunate mortals couldn’t possibly do for themselves… I’d be a hero to the idiotic masses!
Or not.
No-one gives a fuck if someone clever becomes a great mathematician or something, the family will be proud and his friends will be impressed, but those left behind in the factory jobs and building sites would barely remember a name, let alone feel anything positive about it. Why should they? The mathematician's talent is no more valid than their’s just because a teacher told them so 10 years ago.
Imagine a plate of food in front of you, something I’ve spent an hour cooking just for you. Unfortunately, it‘s disgusting. You eat a little, to be polite, maybe you even have enough to fill you up… but I give big portions.
You’re on the verge of vomiting, you’re full and you’re not enjoying the taste, it’s a horrible experience.
“There’s starving kids across the world that would do anything to be lucky enough to be blessed with a plateful of food.”
Does that make you want to eat it? Does it bollocks. It doesn’t stop you feeling overfed and doesn’t take away the taste; it adds shame and guilt and nothing more.
Wednesday, 13 July 2011
This Is Not A Suicide Note
So this is part one of around... I don't know. It's up to about 20 at the moment, but I'll keep the parts short.
This is kind of just a brief introduction to my plan. The coming posts (I'll try to update around once every five days) will explain why I've decided to take this action.
This will be my leaving note, because I'm too much of a coward to write a suicide note. The spelling and grammar wasn't something I tried hard with, nor did I attempt to make it an attractive piece in general, rather just an expression of my feelings in the clearest way possible.
Thanks for reading!
Part One
This is not a suicide note; I’m not dead and won’t be anytime in the foreseeable future.
I will be gone though; I’m leaving for another country. At the moment, the plan is France (because it’s closest) but I hope to maneuver my way across to Belgium, Luxembourg, Holland and Switzerland.
I’ll be trying my best not to come back. I’ll be sleeping in a tent and I’ll do what I can for money, starting with a “proper” job but hopefully moving into what I want to do soon enough.
I’ve been talking for years about how I want to move away, but have never done it.
I watched a film earlier (Cemetery Junction) and there was a similarly whiny yet lazy character. Someone who forever wished to cast his glorious and oh-so-superior nets the furthest, but never did.
Someone said something to him that resonated, “You’re scared to move away, because then you can’t be angry at everyone for holding you back. You’re scared you’ll move away from being a big fish in a small pond and realize you’re nothing.”
I am scared. When I’m here, I’m resting on the suggestion that I could make something of myself if I tried. That was enough, why try when I know I’ll succeed?
This is kind of just a brief introduction to my plan. The coming posts (I'll try to update around once every five days) will explain why I've decided to take this action.
This will be my leaving note, because I'm too much of a coward to write a suicide note. The spelling and grammar wasn't something I tried hard with, nor did I attempt to make it an attractive piece in general, rather just an expression of my feelings in the clearest way possible.
Thanks for reading!
Part One
This is not a suicide note; I’m not dead and won’t be anytime in the foreseeable future.
I will be gone though; I’m leaving for another country. At the moment, the plan is France (because it’s closest) but I hope to maneuver my way across to Belgium, Luxembourg, Holland and Switzerland.
I’ll be trying my best not to come back. I’ll be sleeping in a tent and I’ll do what I can for money, starting with a “proper” job but hopefully moving into what I want to do soon enough.
I’ve been talking for years about how I want to move away, but have never done it.
I watched a film earlier (Cemetery Junction) and there was a similarly whiny yet lazy character. Someone who forever wished to cast his glorious and oh-so-superior nets the furthest, but never did.
Someone said something to him that resonated, “You’re scared to move away, because then you can’t be angry at everyone for holding you back. You’re scared you’ll move away from being a big fish in a small pond and realize you’re nothing.”
I am scared. When I’m here, I’m resting on the suggestion that I could make something of myself if I tried. That was enough, why try when I know I’ll succeed?
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