About Me
I want to die. A year ago in early May, my ex broke up with me. Since then, I haven’t been the same. In some ways I have recovered. When I look at photos of her in my phone (I only have 3 photos; I regret not taking more photos), I do not feel any love for the person on the screen, only recognition that she was something I once had love for. And yet, when I cannot sufficiently distract myself I feel just as broken as I had been a year ago. a few weeks right after she left. This sense of total despair has claimed me its friend, even if I’m not willing. I will never be loved again. This is the reality that I force myself to realize every day. I have alright social skills, but my problem is my attitude. It is difficult for me to want to speak to people. I hate people. I think they are a hassle and cumbersome and selfish and are largely untrustworthy. My mother tells me “It’s a numbers game” when it comes to making friends and dating. If that statement was a physical object, I would stab it several times over until blood runs over my hands and feet. I don’t want my social life to be reduced to a numbers game, something played at a casino. It’s not that simple. I want clear, exact, predictable results. Because of this need to be loved and simultaneous dislike for people, I am a walking oxy moron.
I will die alone.
When she broke up with me, I was determined to not let it get me down, and to someday, hopefully, recover, and become happy once more. My dream has been crushed. Since May, I’ve spent five days of the week working out, sculpting my body in hopes of becoming the physical representation of masculine attractiveness, in hopes that the next time someone falls in love with me, they won’t leave me because I don’t fit into their standard of masculine attractiveness. My ex didn’t leave me for that reason, but I honestly believe that if I was just a little more fit, a little more trim and a little less fat, then I would have had two more weeks with her. I tell myself that, and it pushes me to the edge each day I work out. I don’t work out to be healthy or to live longer, I do it to be beautiful to other people, and no other reason. This year was supposed to be my year.
I did not have a good time socializing last year. I attend university, and I’ve been attending university for almost five years now, and in that time I have failed in social interaction. I have no friends, and I ditched my high school friends three years ago because I was the only one to move to post-secondary and my interactions with them after high school consisted of them getting drunk at parties and making me the pizza boy (I did cold turkey until May of last year). This year, at the beginning of the year, I vowed to do better in the socializing department, because it was a new year and I was growing better. Then the pandemic happened, and everyone’s stuck inside, and I have nowhere to go. I am scared to death of the virus. If I caught it, I don’t think I would fight hard enough to win, but my worry is that I will pass it on to my parents, who I live with currently, and they will suffer because of me. I would rather die than let that happen. But now, I am stuck inside every day, taking online classes, feeling yet again that I don’t belong in an institution of learning, not wanting to be there, losing all sense of motivation besides doing things that brings me comfort, such as playing video games, sleeping, and working out.
Something will break.
It will all end eventually.
There is no hope.
This is my place to bleed.
And I will watch the world burn with me.
