While "researching" old entries for my decade retrospective, I came across this from 12/15/06:
"So I spent 30 minutes sobbing, and now I'm at the contemplation stage. I've unscrewed the screws on the window bar so, if I want to, I can push it wide enough to jump out. I probably would have earlier, but I thought of all the people who would blame themselves if I did, and I was dissuaded. It also doesn't help that I'm uncertain about the fatalness of the fall.
Now I get to decide whether to jump or not with a relatively clearer mind and a distinct lack of violent chest heaves.
I'm practically positive that my emotional state is contigent on the hope that I will find someone who will not let me be abused/work actively to stop it (ie, protect me), will be patient and communicative and forgiving, and, most importantly, will not leave.
This is, of course, impossible. My hope depends on the impossible. Without hope, I have no drive or energy. Eh, screw logic.
I could call so many people. I could email more. I could contact complete strangers at number designed just to "help" in these situations. But, honestly. No one will be able to convince me that I shouldn't be so terrified of other people. No one will be able to convince me that I'll ever be loved. No one will be able to convince me that someday I really will feel consistently content without abusing escapism. I'm angry. So fucking angry. At my father, at my mother, at society, at the educational system, at other people, at all people, and, of course, at myself. I've tried, I really have. But there's nothing to soothe the rage. There's nothing convincingly positive that makes me think "maybe there's hope for joy yet." I'm tired of feeling so manipulated by myself, but I know if I don't I really will be perpetually lonely. Not that there's much difference, eh?
Even if I don't tonight, it'll happen again. Even if I fall in love and am loved, as soon as it's gone, just like my father, this will happen again. And, eventually, I'll probably just do it. But the question is, is tonight the night. Even if it's not fatal, I can at least be real. I can be a lonely, bitter vegetable, a brussel sprout or something. Maybe I'll get brain damaged and turned into someone so simplistic that I can trust and love and be innocence without experience again.
Rachel just called to offer me a place to stay. I've been offered quite a few, which is really nice, but I know I couldn't accept. I feel like a burden enough as it is, sleeping at my grandparent's house. And as I was talking to Rachel, I was thinking "Would she feel more guilty or betrayed if I did this?" It's now occurred to me that the thought that I was gone would be painful. The reason I didn't jump earlier was primarily guilt about other people feeling guilt. Hell, part of the reason I'm writing this is to assuage possible guilt if I do end up deciding on this. But me valued as a person, in and of myself, well, it didn't even enter my mind.
I'm a burden. As a child, I'm a responsibility. As a friend, I'm a source of amusement that turns into a morbid guilt-trip and incessant worry once you see past the first mask. What do I have that makes me valuable? Time and time again, it seems to come back to me as nothing sincere, nothing significant. I mean, if I did have good qualities, wouldn't someone love me? What the hell is wrong with me? What isn'twrong with me? I'm so full of depressed desperation and barely contained rage that it's quite clear I'm one of the "crazy ones" everyone warns you about but that you need to experience for yourself.
And I'm so scared of being "that person." I'm so scared of being a burden, not to mention thoroughly worthless. So I tell jokes. Oh boy. Other than that? Other than that ploy, that mockery of the melancholy I can barely conceal inside? I'm utterly interchangeable. Maybe you are too. In fact, I'm quite sure that I don't apply the same scale of worth to you as I do myself. But that's how this sort of thing works, isn't it?
So I'm a worthless, unwanted, still walking contradiction. Signs point to plummet. I don't even want to be valued anymore, because I know I am. It's just not enough. I still feel irrevocably flawed. And really tired. I really don't want to have to keep fighting. I really don't want life to be a "fight" in the first place.
Something is wrong with me. I'm afraid. It's a quintessential Catch-22. I can't ask someone to dance because I'm not comfortable/confident/good at dancing. However, I can't become comfortable/confident/good at dancing unless I ask someone to dance. But if I ask someone to dance while I'm not comfortable/confident/good at dancing, they'll get bored/turned off because of this. And it's the same with my relationships and, oddly enough, suicide. I can't commit suicide because I'd burden others. However, I want to commit suicide because I am, ultimately, a burden to others. So, in order to fix this, I have to break the cycle. This means I have to stop being afraid. This means I commit suicide. Of course, then I won't need to commit suicide because I'm not afraid anymore.
I don't understand love. The very thing I damn my father for. But I am not my father.
I need hope. I need something that will make me real, not so worried about everything.
So, here's the solution: One semester. If by the end of Spring semester I have not had a satisfactory relationship and am significantly unhappy/despairing, I will attempt suicide. I will not tell anyone about this plan until it has been discarded or I publish this posthumously. I will not attempt suicide until the end of Spring semester. I will upholdall of this.
-Dylan"
I didn't actually remember this until I reread it. It was when I was living, alone, in Andy Holt over winter break. Winter breaks have not been kind. I don't know what to make of my threat; I made a lot of progress the following March. But I believe the feelings speak for themselves.
Anyway, the point is, this type of person, that is probably much more prevalent than I care to ponder, is the type that easily starts relationships in the first place. This distresses me. It disconcerts me. It boggles my mind. I know why it's true (more or less), but it's so repugnant I want to rage against it with the same passion I rage against the educational system and genocide (the two are related, I assure you). I want to scream, I want to positively explode at the sheer injustice.
It's as if I'm the Salieri to the world's Mozart, except Mozart is worse than me, he just has a better agent. And I have no idea what to do about it. I'm so used to taking responsibility for myself, changing myself, improving myself that I naturally assume the fault lies with me. And, somehow, it must. So the contempt, the ire, the what-have-you is directed internally because I know life isn't fair, but if it's not me then what the hell am I supposed to do? I'm twenty years old. Intelligent, creative, witty, ideologically charged, compassionate, empathic, hardly socially inept (unless I'm reallymissing something, in which case, for the love of whatever, please tell me), and forgiving. Yes, I have... "nerdish" hobbies, but I have a good explanation for all of them, and refuse to fall into any fake "label trap" of a cheap excuse. I am, agnosticism aside, by most accounts a "good person." More people than I can name like me. And I honestly like them! Hell, I like me. I like who I aspire to be. I love the me I want to be, and the me I want to be is no pipe dream.
And yet. And. Yet. Look at the me of a few nights ago. Look at the bitterness, the hate, the genuinely suicidal urges, the depression, the negativity. I'm terrified, I'm insecure, I'm constantly fighting for energy. I feel like waves crash against my "Fortress of Self" and I "suck it up", endure, and try not to collapse.
This is not how I should be! I think of positive me, me with energy, me with a zest for life that any capital "R" Romantic loves. I love my future! I love my aging! I love humanity, I love my job, I love my work, I love love love! It sounds like mania, I know. It sounds like an idealistic, naive young man before he meets THE REAL WORLD. But no! My God, no! There will be ups and downs, but you know me. You've met me. The one you would never guess glances out his window and seriously wonders if the fall would be fatal, because a dime removes the screws, and it's a fast fall to Hell from there. You know "The Sides." Can you imagine me not depressed? Can I imagine it?
I want it. I want it so fucking badly.
So what's stopping me? Why is this "relationship" thing the linchpin? So many reasons... I've never felt safe? A word, a glance lights my father's fire, and all my mother does is watch (thou doth protest, but thou doeth no more; the UN to Darfur). I've never felt... really loved. I mean, I know you all care. I really do. And I care back, undoubtedly. But loved? Loved is when I'm not afraid. Loved is when I trust more than my words, but my "self" to you. When you do not only listen to my woes, but act. But think and care and say "This is ours to overcome."
Loved is not leaving on a breeze. Friends leave and it's hard and you cry and you move on. Loved leaves and you are less than whole. Loved leaves and there are so many pieces, so many pieces. Loved leaves a wound, a scar you couldn't hope to heal.
Loved is bending. Loved is compromise. Loved is forgiving, repenting, and healing. Loved is a dance, missed steps and all.
Alone is pavement in a hurricane. Friends are tents in the storm. But loved is the warmest bed, the arms around you, the nowhere-else-in-the-world as you stare, in the dark, through the rain, into their eyes, no-other-time-but-now.
I want to be loved.
And does it sound so fanciful? Does it really sound so farfetched? For someone searching for the one who always agrees, who never mistakes, who's the smarteststrongestgrandestrichesteverythi
So why is it I can't manage loved? I wish it were a matter of patience, but isn't college long enough? Isn't 20 long enough? What is wrong with me that makes this so hard? What do I have to do? How much longer do I wait? What the hell is so wrong?
*sigh*"
"So I spent 30 minutes sobbing, and now I'm at the contemplation stage. I've unscrewed the screws on the window bar so, if I want to, I can push it wide enough to jump out. I probably would have earlier, but I thought of all the people who would blame themselves if I did, and I was dissuaded. It also doesn't help that I'm uncertain about the fatalness of the fall.
Now I get to decide whether to jump or not with a relatively clearer mind and a distinct lack of violent chest heaves.
I'm practically positive that my emotional state is contigent on the hope that I will find someone who will not let me be abused/work actively to stop it (ie, protect me), will be patient and communicative and forgiving, and, most importantly, will not leave.
This is, of course, impossible. My hope depends on the impossible. Without hope, I have no drive or energy. Eh, screw logic.
I could call so many people. I could email more. I could contact complete strangers at number designed just to "help" in these situations. But, honestly. No one will be able to convince me that I shouldn't be so terrified of other people. No one will be able to convince me that I'll ever be loved. No one will be able to convince me that someday I really will feel consistently content without abusing escapism. I'm angry. So fucking angry. At my father, at my mother, at society, at the educational system, at other people, at all people, and, of course, at myself. I've tried, I really have. But there's nothing to soothe the rage. There's nothing convincingly positive that makes me think "maybe there's hope for joy yet." I'm tired of feeling so manipulated by myself, but I know if I don't I really will be perpetually lonely. Not that there's much difference, eh?
Even if I don't tonight, it'll happen again. Even if I fall in love and am loved, as soon as it's gone, just like my father, this will happen again. And, eventually, I'll probably just do it. But the question is, is tonight the night. Even if it's not fatal, I can at least be real. I can be a lonely, bitter vegetable, a brussel sprout or something. Maybe I'll get brain damaged and turned into someone so simplistic that I can trust and love and be innocence without experience again.
Rachel just called to offer me a place to stay. I've been offered quite a few, which is really nice, but I know I couldn't accept. I feel like a burden enough as it is, sleeping at my grandparent's house. And as I was talking to Rachel, I was thinking "Would she feel more guilty or betrayed if I did this?" It's now occurred to me that the thought that I was gone would be painful. The reason I didn't jump earlier was primarily guilt about other people feeling guilt. Hell, part of the reason I'm writing this is to assuage possible guilt if I do end up deciding on this. But me valued as a person, in and of myself, well, it didn't even enter my mind.
I'm a burden. As a child, I'm a responsibility. As a friend, I'm a source of amusement that turns into a morbid guilt-trip and incessant worry once you see past the first mask. What do I have that makes me valuable? Time and time again, it seems to come back to me as nothing sincere, nothing significant. I mean, if I did have good qualities, wouldn't someone love me? What the hell is wrong with me? What isn'twrong with me? I'm so full of depressed desperation and barely contained rage that it's quite clear I'm one of the "crazy ones" everyone warns you about but that you need to experience for yourself.
And I'm so scared of being "that person." I'm so scared of being a burden, not to mention thoroughly worthless. So I tell jokes. Oh boy. Other than that? Other than that ploy, that mockery of the melancholy I can barely conceal inside? I'm utterly interchangeable. Maybe you are too. In fact, I'm quite sure that I don't apply the same scale of worth to you as I do myself. But that's how this sort of thing works, isn't it?
So I'm a worthless, unwanted, still walking contradiction. Signs point to plummet. I don't even want to be valued anymore, because I know I am. It's just not enough. I still feel irrevocably flawed. And really tired. I really don't want to have to keep fighting. I really don't want life to be a "fight" in the first place.
Something is wrong with me. I'm afraid. It's a quintessential Catch-22. I can't ask someone to dance because I'm not comfortable/confident/good at dancing. However, I can't become comfortable/confident/good at dancing unless I ask someone to dance. But if I ask someone to dance while I'm not comfortable/confident/good at dancing, they'll get bored/turned off because of this. And it's the same with my relationships and, oddly enough, suicide. I can't commit suicide because I'd burden others. However, I want to commit suicide because I am, ultimately, a burden to others. So, in order to fix this, I have to break the cycle. This means I have to stop being afraid. This means I commit suicide. Of course, then I won't need to commit suicide because I'm not afraid anymore.
I don't understand love. The very thing I damn my father for. But I am not my father.
I need hope. I need something that will make me real, not so worried about everything.
So, here's the solution: One semester. If by the end of Spring semester I have not had a satisfactory relationship and am significantly unhappy/despairing, I will attempt suicide. I will not tell anyone about this plan until it has been discarded or I publish this posthumously. I will not attempt suicide until the end of Spring semester. I will upholdall of this.
-Dylan"
I didn't actually remember this until I reread it. It was when I was living, alone, in Andy Holt over winter break. Winter breaks have not been kind. I don't know what to make of my threat; I made a lot of progress the following March. But I believe the feelings speak for themselves.
And then, 1/11/07, this:
"God, I wish I knew how to save myself from myself. I'm just so bitter and angry and, I don't know, terrified. I don't know if it's my self-contempt or my increasing disdain for a "reality" wherein I can do/say/be, more or less, a good, interesting, yada yada person and yet persist in such unhappiness. I guess I'll try to get my anti-die-pressant prescription changed again, but that's not the fucking solution I want. I don't want more psychoanalysis, more metaphysics, more ideological invigorations, more "have faith in the future," more anything but goddamn results.
I didn't understand any urge towards selfharm (outside of suicide) until last semester. And then, and now, I just feel such a desire to destroy myself, to picture myself a crumpled body on the pavement, a limp weight on a noose, a bloody mess in a bathtub. And that's the relief, the old, tried and blue desires. The new are things of disfigurement, of visceral attacks that are at once self-flaggellation, as a priest would for his unworthiness of God's love, at once that penitence, that desperate desire to just cause such pain to my person so as to make me worthy of some lasting solace. And then there's the disgust, the glimpses of the monster this bitterness breeds, the desire to stop myself before I become such a corrupt, twisted creature, masked and masquerading as some jovial paragon of exuberance, inwardly hating, always, always hating.
I want to cut my wrists, my thighs, my face, I want my blood to not just drip but pour, so I can scream and look and be and finally articulate in a language the heavens must understand how wretched I feel. And I don't want pity, I don't want sympathy, I don't want horror. I want understanding, maybe. Maybe. But I mostly want relief. Because, surely, if I make the external match the internal I'll at least feel comfortable. I'll at least feel like a person instead of a puppet. I'll at least be able to exist in a moment instead of having to be so goddamn afraid.
But it's the same fear, the same "do no wrong" sentiment that keeps me "protected" from myself. It's the same fear that paralyzes me when I dance, that same fear that sends me in a frenzy, trying to say or do something to bring out a smile so I know I'm valued (ever so briefly, always ever so briefly), that gives me some solid confirmation that I'm worthwhile. I'm addicted to laughter, to irony, to immersing myself in the bitterness that seems to consume me. God help the sincere, the comedians take care of themselves! Because what could I be valued for, if not entertainment? People don't want this, this horror, this despair. People don't want intelligence turned pretension. People don't want nice turned boring. People don't want passion turned mania. People don't want virtue turned sanctimony.
But the truth is, I don't want me. So who else would? And I know my hypocrisy. I can make the list in my mind of all of the people in my life who really are wonderful, who consider me wonderful, who would help me if they only had the faintest idea how. I can imagine the words, the objections, the honest-to-all that's holy gospel truth value they assign to me. And yet, it's apparently not good enough. I'm apparently not good enough. They are. To a head. But me? No. No no no no no no no no no nononononononononononononononononononono
God doesn't have to damn me, because I've already done it myself.
Would an apology even do any good? Would you forgive me? Would you forget it all happened and just like me? Just love me? I can be almost anyone you want, just, please, love me. Please."
I didn't understand any urge towards selfharm (outside of suicide) until last semester. And then, and now, I just feel such a desire to destroy myself, to picture myself a crumpled body on the pavement, a limp weight on a noose, a bloody mess in a bathtub. And that's the relief, the old, tried and blue desires. The new are things of disfigurement, of visceral attacks that are at once self-flaggellation, as a priest would for his unworthiness of God's love, at once that penitence, that desperate desire to just cause such pain to my person so as to make me worthy of some lasting solace. And then there's the disgust, the glimpses of the monster this bitterness breeds, the desire to stop myself before I become such a corrupt, twisted creature, masked and masquerading as some jovial paragon of exuberance, inwardly hating, always, always hating.
I want to cut my wrists, my thighs, my face, I want my blood to not just drip but pour, so I can scream and look and be and finally articulate in a language the heavens must understand how wretched I feel. And I don't want pity, I don't want sympathy, I don't want horror. I want understanding, maybe. Maybe. But I mostly want relief. Because, surely, if I make the external match the internal I'll at least feel comfortable. I'll at least feel like a person instead of a puppet. I'll at least be able to exist in a moment instead of having to be so goddamn afraid.
But it's the same fear, the same "do no wrong" sentiment that keeps me "protected" from myself. It's the same fear that paralyzes me when I dance, that same fear that sends me in a frenzy, trying to say or do something to bring out a smile so I know I'm valued (ever so briefly, always ever so briefly), that gives me some solid confirmation that I'm worthwhile. I'm addicted to laughter, to irony, to immersing myself in the bitterness that seems to consume me. God help the sincere, the comedians take care of themselves! Because what could I be valued for, if not entertainment? People don't want this, this horror, this despair. People don't want intelligence turned pretension. People don't want nice turned boring. People don't want passion turned mania. People don't want virtue turned sanctimony.
But the truth is, I don't want me. So who else would? And I know my hypocrisy. I can make the list in my mind of all of the people in my life who really are wonderful, who consider me wonderful, who would help me if they only had the faintest idea how. I can imagine the words, the objections, the honest-to-all that's holy gospel truth value they assign to me. And yet, it's apparently not good enough. I'm apparently not good enough. They are. To a head. But me? No. No no no no no no no no no nononononononononononononononononononono
God doesn't have to damn me, because I've already done it myself.
Would an apology even do any good? Would you forgive me? Would you forget it all happened and just like me? Just love me? I can be almost anyone you want, just, please, love me. Please."
And then, 1/15/2007, this:
"I just finished reading High Fidelity by Nick Hornby for my music class, and it was certainly an... experience. To sum up, it was a fast, engaging read despite the fact that I hated the main character. It was one of those "relationship filled" books and it had all these "guys do this, but women do this" nonsense that irritates me to no end. The guy made lots of mistakes (the sort of bad decisions that you know are bad to begin with, not accidents or wellintentioned plans gone awry) and had some truly repugnant views and concerns (honestly, if the girl's back with you, why does it matter if he was "better." What does that even mean?).
Anyway, the point is, this type of person, that is probably much more prevalent than I care to ponder, is the type that easily starts relationships in the first place. This distresses me. It disconcerts me. It boggles my mind. I know why it's true (more or less), but it's so repugnant I want to rage against it with the same passion I rage against the educational system and genocide (the two are related, I assure you). I want to scream, I want to positively explode at the sheer injustice.
It's as if I'm the Salieri to the world's Mozart, except Mozart is worse than me, he just has a better agent. And I have no idea what to do about it. I'm so used to taking responsibility for myself, changing myself, improving myself that I naturally assume the fault lies with me. And, somehow, it must. So the contempt, the ire, the what-have-you is directed internally because I know life isn't fair, but if it's not me then what the hell am I supposed to do? I'm twenty years old. Intelligent, creative, witty, ideologically charged, compassionate, empathic, hardly socially inept (unless I'm reallymissing something, in which case, for the love of whatever, please tell me), and forgiving. Yes, I have... "nerdish" hobbies, but I have a good explanation for all of them, and refuse to fall into any fake "label trap" of a cheap excuse. I am, agnosticism aside, by most accounts a "good person." More people than I can name like me. And I honestly like them! Hell, I like me. I like who I aspire to be. I love the me I want to be, and the me I want to be is no pipe dream.
And yet. And. Yet. Look at the me of a few nights ago. Look at the bitterness, the hate, the genuinely suicidal urges, the depression, the negativity. I'm terrified, I'm insecure, I'm constantly fighting for energy. I feel like waves crash against my "Fortress of Self" and I "suck it up", endure, and try not to collapse.
This is not how I should be! I think of positive me, me with energy, me with a zest for life that any capital "R" Romantic loves. I love my future! I love my aging! I love humanity, I love my job, I love my work, I love love love! It sounds like mania, I know. It sounds like an idealistic, naive young man before he meets THE REAL WORLD. But no! My God, no! There will be ups and downs, but you know me. You've met me. The one you would never guess glances out his window and seriously wonders if the fall would be fatal, because a dime removes the screws, and it's a fast fall to Hell from there. You know "The Sides." Can you imagine me not depressed? Can I imagine it?
I want it. I want it so fucking badly.
So what's stopping me? Why is this "relationship" thing the linchpin? So many reasons... I've never felt safe? A word, a glance lights my father's fire, and all my mother does is watch (thou doth protest, but thou doeth no more; the UN to Darfur). I've never felt... really loved. I mean, I know you all care. I really do. And I care back, undoubtedly. But loved? Loved is when I'm not afraid. Loved is when I trust more than my words, but my "self" to you. When you do not only listen to my woes, but act. But think and care and say "This is ours to overcome."
Loved is not leaving on a breeze. Friends leave and it's hard and you cry and you move on. Loved leaves and you are less than whole. Loved leaves and there are so many pieces, so many pieces. Loved leaves a wound, a scar you couldn't hope to heal.
Loved is bending. Loved is compromise. Loved is forgiving, repenting, and healing. Loved is a dance, missed steps and all.
Alone is pavement in a hurricane. Friends are tents in the storm. But loved is the warmest bed, the arms around you, the nowhere-else-in-the-world as you stare, in the dark, through the rain, into their eyes, no-other-time-but-now.
I want to be loved.
And does it sound so fanciful? Does it really sound so farfetched? For someone searching for the one who always agrees, who never mistakes, who's the smarteststrongestgrandestrichesteverythi
So why is it I can't manage loved? I wish it were a matter of patience, but isn't college long enough? Isn't 20 long enough? What is wrong with me that makes this so hard? What do I have to do? How much longer do I wait? What the hell is so wrong?
*sigh*"
I'm really glad I wrote those. They really capture the moment. And they at once help me see how far I've come and how far I have left to go. The rage, so present in parts, is largely gone. Two and a half years of a positive relationship have eased that desperation and hopelessness. And though I am still depressed, though I am still self-conscious and have intense doubts coupled with frequent self-hatred, I have grown. In three years, I have grown. Emotional empiricism. Be still my beating robot heart.
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