It’s one of those times you have to write — I have to write — because the emotions are overwhelming, and there is no choice. So many thoughts and emotions, where to start, and where to end? How does one even begin to untangle years and years of thoughts and — after I had wrote that, my computer froze. It rarely freezes. Unbelievable. Then I had to wait ten minutes to get back here to write more because I don’t have the energy — no, my body is too heavy — for me to move myself to the monster gaming pc I’ve worked so hard for. I had to take a picture to recover a line to keep the original thought because the draft only saves the first line. Anyway…
I’m listening to “Fix You” by Coldplay on loop, the only song I can think of that represents how I think and feel right now. I’m tired of this life. I’ve worked so hard to get to this road, for more pain and disappointment. I thought I passed that road of pain and disappointment, but it showed up again. I guess it’s a necessity to continue on in life.
It’s hard to admit after so many dates, of people I felt I didn’t connect with, I get a first then a second date and a night of perfection with one I connect with. And I get a taste of my old medicine, old medicine I had to take to cover over the hurt of innocence, that she doesn’t want what I want. But that’s relationships — never wanting the same thing. Memories of my past, past relationships and struggles flowed passed, and I cried in my bedroom. I cried driving to the store to get melatonin so I can sleep. I cried to the gym. I cried a bit while on the treadmill and at the end of doing my sit ups. I cried on the drive back home. I cried again once I got back to my room. And…and someone else I want, I love, is too far away, across the country. I’ve gotten countless numbers off dating sites, tried getting numbers in person. It’s time to stay alone, like I should have. For once, I’m tired of being me. I’ve come close plenty of times before fully admitting it, but how could I reject myself and not bear my own burden, or as if I should let someone else bear the burden of being me because I’m a coward?
Worked hard for that stupid undergrad degree. Working hard for that stupid grad degree. Worked hard for my current position. It only took an insane amount of interviews and rejection to finally get to it. It only took almost being dead at the job before the new one and being revived by the new one. Tired of family and friends of family emailing me job posting or suggest I find a new job. Even though it’s hella fucking far away and I have to go through traffic hell, I still enjoy my job and don’t want to look for another. Was surprised when an 18 year old was working there. Do I admit it made me insecure and jealous and that all my work up to that point to achieve my point in life flashed across my mind? 7 year difference. That life is a bunch of bullshit piled together. That it all makes sense and doesn’t make any sense. It seems like the future is shit, the past is shit. Everything is shit.
Tired of being powerless. Tired of life being so heavy. Tired of dealing with not getting things I want. But maybe that’s life, dealing with the fact that you don’t get anything you want. Or you get what you want, then it gets taken away, or something happens, and you deal with the pain of having had it and dealing with that it was too good to be true. You don’t get the girl. You don’t get the friend. You don’t get the rest. You don’t get the income you want. You don’t get the sleep. You don’t get to make the invention or license it. You don’t get to publish the fucking book. Hell, you don’t even get to publish the fucking short story. You don’t get a place in the world besides the bubble you surround yourself with. You don’t get the video stats you want. You don’t get the effect, the influence you want. Oh, but you get all the texts and work to get the girls with no results. You get online friends. You get to feel out of place at the college you went to. You get loneliness. You get more work to do to keep yourself busy. You get more homework. You get more driving. You get more roboting. You get to see others succeed at things like licensing or inventing. You get to see your book self published with little to no views, or views and no comments or feedback, or views and feedback with negative comments for trying to entertain and help people. You get to be commanded and directed like you’re a fucking kid. You write your discussion board posts for your grad school and get responses from older adults like “Great job Kevin,” “Good Post Kevin,” “Good job this week Kevin,” but those aren’t the words they usually use, no, they’re more condescending like you’re a kid and did a good job and an adult tells you that you did a great job. You get to have other people misunderstand you. You get to have people fall for the availability heuristic and use a small piece of information to define your narrative and define your character because they are fucking idiots. You get to write a blog post that shows your blood and the hole in you because you don’t have a choice, and it’s there for others to read if they so choose. I won’t share it because I don’t want to share this. But if someone finds it, so be it.
I’m tired of having been a fucking writer. Hate being a fucking writer. Biggest curse and blessing of my life. To have the curse of having to pour out the words for them all to be seen, to have the blessing to pour out the words because otherwise I’d probably go insane from not having given myself the therapy I needed from writing how I felt and thought. The words come from pain. Being a writer comes from pain.
I have a discussion board post I should be doing for grad school. But writing this is more important. Having had to go to the gym was more important, because that’s my response when I’m angry, when I’m hurt, when I don’t know what to do. Getting the melatonin gummies was more important, because if I didn’t then I’m getting zero sleep tonight. First class I’m so burned out in, the one I’m tired of writing in, the one where I let myself turn in late homework because I’ll accept a lower grade and do the homework when I feel like it. I know I can do it. I don’t need a class or an assignment or more writing or a deadline to tell me I’m qualified to get the degree, that I can do it, that I’m qualified, that I did the work. I’m tired of the bullshit. But I’ll tolerate the bullshit, because it’s the only way. Life, it seems like it’s all about how much bullshit you can tolerate. And, oh, I’ve tolerated the bullshit all right. Plenty of bullshit.
I’m tired of being the submissive hypersensitive introvert and having other extroverts, or even introverts who want to force their words on me, rape me with their words, talk over me and make me retreat into my mind, not being able to say what I really want.
But being this hurt and in pain is nice. It’s nice that it overcomes all routines, biological urges, desires, anything. All that exists is the hurt.
Ive thought about it plenty of times before. I thought about the period, the full stop, the end of the chapter, end of the book. Who needs the wheel of life spinning just so it can repeat itself. But I’m a coward, and I couldn’t do it. I guess I have too many words that want to gush out. It wants me to go over the word count, as usual.
I think it hasn’t been since I was a teenager that I listened to the same song over on loop so many times as if to try and exhaust it. It’s pleasant. It exhausts me and gets me close to sleep.
It’s been rare where my job has become more meaningful than the life outside of it. It’s the only thing that feels like it centers my life, even though it exhausts me after. The life outside it has become empty stuff. An empty wheel that keeps on spinning.
What if I were an artist? I wonder what picture i’d paint to represent how I feel. What if I were a musician? I wonder what song I would write to show how I feel. Probably one that shows how much I don’t belong in this world.
It’s nice to let go. Let go of all the stupid chat apps and dating apps. I re-learned helplessness.
And now tiredness has set in. Sleepiness has won. It’s overcoming.
I wrote what I needed. Never everything. But what needed to come out, what needed written. What it wanted written. It’s hard to tell the 100% truth, but as a writer, I always write the truth, as close as I can get it.
It’s time to respect myself and get some sleep.