On Life and its Potential for Absence

Over the past few months, I find myself thinking about death.

I wonder about what passing away would be like.

I contemplate doing it myself, and then my mind drifts, and I pretend like nature or fate will be the one responsible.

My life has hit a point of stagnant limbo. Anyone familiar with my writing knows that I've never been particularly happy, but I'm starting to feel it all bottom out. Purpose has eluded me for pretty much the entirety of my adult life. I'm still quite young, but I'm so impatient, and I'm feeling desperate for something to keep my head above the drowning pool. I've tried to go back to school almost half a dozen times, and yet every time I know that it's pointless, because I return without a sense of direction, and I inevitably get lost in the corridors and then frantically search for the exit. The exit is always the easiest doorway to find. It's almost like it follows you everywhere, while all possible destinations scurry like cockroaches at your approach.

I try to bridge the gap between myself and my happiness with love and with girls. The harder I try, the less effective it becomes. Even as a simple illusion or distraction, it constantly backfires, as every girl I come across tends to remind me over and over of all of my personal failures. My stability is often dependent on the lady in my life, which is as unhealthy as it is necessary at times. When I'm completely alone and without any sort of pursuit, I stay locked inside of my head, without anyone to remind me that I am worthwhile as a person and as a man. I need someone to tell me that I am good and that they want me to stay by their side. It's sad, and by all means, it alone makes me that much less of a man. But there isn't any sense in lying to myself about it. I've been single for long stretches and I have had many dry spells, but never really intentionally. I don't possess much in the way of confidence and I am not especially social; I'm also terrified of being labeled as a "creep". But it's just as well, really - there's no sense in dragging another girl down with me while I'm stifled by my own issues and crises.

Despite depression being the only consistent theme that my life has ever had, I have never truly considered suicide. I've spoken of it before - many times in fact - because I wanted attention and aid. I often felt like the world around me was collapsing, and I always needed someone else to verify that it wasn't, and that everything was perfectly all right. But I'm not like I was when I was younger.

Recently, the moment things don't go my way, my mood plummets. These mood swings are so severe some times that it makes me worry for my mental health. And often, when things sway and I suddenly feel so angry and sullen, thoughts of death run rampant through my head. I imagine myself dying, and worse yet, I imagine myself dying at my own hand. I don't know when or why this started occurring, but it happens more and more often, and I generally have to find some way to talk myself out of the storm.

Even still, I have only just started to actually think about how I would go about it, and that's the first step to doing something crazy and foolish. I still like to think that I would never even dare attempt it, because my family and friends matter to me far too much and I don't want to burden them with doing something so careless and horrible. I would be at peace, but they would be in turmoil. I don't believe in Hell, nor do I particularly believe in Heaven and I'm starting to question the presence of a God at all, but I do think that some part of us remains after expiring, and that part of me would know, or at the very least, feel what I have done and the pain that I have caused.

Regardless of my intentions or my ability to stop giving a damn about the people that love me the most, the simple fact that I'm contemplating suicide at all warrants concern and action.

I used to see a therapist. As I was paying for it out of my own pocket, I could only afford to see him once every month. But he felt like a friend to me and was always someone that I admired. He knew that I was unhappy and unsatisfied with life, but he always seemed particularly confident that I would overcome my problems and find whatever it was that I was looking for. Recently, my parents were kind enough to pay for another visit to him. I hadn't seen him in over a year-and-a-half, and I told him quite literally everything that had happened to me since we last spoke. My failure to make a life for myself in Columbus, my parents' divorce and reconciliation, my relationship with Megan, my eventual and complete dependency on marijuana, my confession to and fallout with Christina, the jobs that I've had and lost, the time that I've wasted; all of it came out in a stream that wasn't quite a vomit of words but wasn't far from it. He listened mostly in silence, making the occasion quip or  comment here or there. By the end I feel that he understood that I had been through quite a lot in a relatively short period of time. We joke with each other a lot and in the midst of our sessions tend to share amusing stories or anecdotes, but this time, he was very serious. By the end, after I fought to admit to him that my thoughts did some times revolve around suicide, for the first time in all the time I've been seeing him, he strongly recommended that I return to talk about these issues. He seemed genuinely worried and concerned, which, while somewhat alarming, was also very comforting and kind of touching.

So much of my life has been spent in misery. I've whined to so many of my friends and family that for the most part, I don't really think anyone takes me seriously anymore. For the past several years I've become quite good at keeping my hurt and my pain to myself, so when it does spill out, it tends to be in the form of a meltdown. Sadly, that is usually the only time anybody pays much attention. But I understand their perspective. Fortunately, my therapist is paid to listen, and therefore has no choice but to really understand what I'm telling him. I don't think I'm deluding myself into thinking that he cares. It's hard for me to really talk about things as serious as this to anyone but him, because people will automatically go from uncaring to frantic the moment I mention that I've been thinking a lot about dying. That doesn't help me. But at the same time, no longer do I wish to weigh upon anyone else's thoughts due to my own trivial sobs and sorrows. My life is not difficult or traumatic, and yet I seem hard-wired for gloom and despair. How could anyone understand or comprehend that? I don't even understand it.

The other night my sister took me to a local concert where a band that we both really enjoy was playing. I'm always happy to get out and do something active these days, and I was excited to see what kind of crowd would be attending this show. We sat for quite a long time before the band we came to see appeared on stage, and I amused myself by watching the different groups of people interacting with each other. Some of them sat and talked, smoking their cigarettes and drinking. Some of them revolved from the dance floor to the bar and back again, while others simply never stopped dancing as long as there was music to dance to. When the Ragbirds finally took the stage and blew everyone away with their eclectic and all-encompassing performance, I was treated to many displays of joy and indulgence that were so lacking in self-consciousness and doubt that it was really sort hard not to be inspired by them. There were many couples: some danced very closely while others danced haphazardly and with reckless abandon. Groups of friends would drag each other to the dance floor and coerce each other into grooving this way and that. Even people completely on their own would find their own space and move to the music in their own unique manner. No matter who I saw or observed, all I could sense from their expressions, the way that they spoke and the way that they flowed was happiness. Despite everything else happening in their life at any given time: tonight, they were free to dance to the beautiful music of a talented band that they all loved so dearly.

And I admired them for their apparent lust for life. Some of them were probably just like me: without much of a direction, maybe without any aspirations at all. Maybe some of them were having a hard time with money or making rent. Maybe some of them were having problems with a relationship, or had recently had an argument with a friend or family member. None of it mattered while they danced and laughed and spoke across the room. And I found myself wishing that I was like them. I carry my burdens upon my back everywhere I go, and though I am still able to let loose and have a great time on occasion, the moment the excitement stops and the stillness settles back in, I hit the rocky floor below all over again.

I'm so tired of being the way that I am. I don't want to die, and I don't want to consider the idea anymore. If I could unlock myself, things would get better. They would get infinitely better. The drive to try and succeed is completely lost on me. I may be done with school for the rest of my life, but why does that mean I have to give up on being somebody? I'm so damn talented, and my depression makes it hard to even indulge myself in my talents. My art is constantly suffering because I am so rarely in the mood to pick up the pencil or the charcoal or the tablet. My poetry comes and goes and while my abilities stay strong, they would be miles above where I am now if I could dedicate myself to them. And though I will always be in love with my drum kit, I am so desperate to become a true musician and songwriter that it hurts. The dedication... It's what I need. It's what I need for everything. The passion, the dedication and the drive. All of these things that are necessary for me to finally move on and to realize my true and limitless potential, but I am constantly at a loss for them.

I feel as though I will muse on this subject for the rest of my life without ever being able to change it.

I want my lust for life to match my lust for the female form.

I want to live.

And I need to find a way to live, or else I don't think I'll last much longer.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Apologies for writing this. It's depressing and dramatic. But it's true, and I needed to let it out somewhere that it could be read, but where someone in my life wouldn't stumble upon it.

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