Before I begin, I’m sorry for how much bad language there might be, but it seems that’s the only way I can get the words out. Also, this will be a long one. So, strap in, kiddos.
Here I am, between jobs yet again. I told friends and family I was laid off, but I quit. I couldn’t stand going day to day, overworked, interacting with so many people nonstop, and never have any downtime in order to recuperate.
And as I’m sitting here, crying quietly so my roommates don’t hear me and clutching a stuffed raccoon I made on an outing with my girlfriend (I’m a grown ass 21 year old dude. Pathetic), I’m thinking about how much of a fuck up ive been in my life so far.
When I was young, I almost died of a mystery virus while living overseas. My mom wanted a son, and I’m her only one (I have two older sisters). It’s not so much that incident that makes me feel like a fuck up, but I do wish I did die that Christmas Eve.
Why?
Growing up, I was bullied in school all the way to the end of middle school. Pre middle school was because I was the nice kid who never would fight back. Middle school was because there was a rumor that I was gay with another kid (who never learned this until years later cuz who the fuck picks on an autistic kid?). With this was harassment, and almost ritual dragging me to the bathrooms and getting the shit kicked out of me. I never told my folks because I didn’t want to cause any more trouble than I thought I had.
If anything good is to be taken from this, I developed a high physical pain tolerance.
At home wasn’t much better.
Smacked around by the oldest sister.
My dad had a really bad temper due to high blood pressure. When he was stressed or angry, it would normally be taken out on me. Only time I can really remember to this day was one day I was sitting in my room, and he comes in fuming mad. No one else is home. He yells, hits me, throws me around.
Only part I never found out was why. So, being the little kid I was, I assumed I did something wrong and was being punished. Therefore, I never said anything.
My middle sister is mildly autistic. She was a savage though. Dad always took her side though, believing for the longest time she was actually defenseless. He never found out how she really was to the rest of us until years later.
Seventh grade, I noticed something wasn’t right. I remember sitting in English class, and thought to myself “I don’t feel okay.” After middle school I mentioned it to my mom, the only family member who actually seemed to give a damn, and I was then diagnosed with depression.
Junior year was hell grade wise. My dad hounded me about school for as long as I could remember. I was called lazy and other such things, when, I’m reality, seeing how good my sisters were at seemingly everything, I didn’t see a point in trying. Anyway, junior year was really bad, all the way to the point I was sitting in French class the day after my dad blew up at me big time and even punched a hole in the wall, and I was writing a suicide note. A friend saw what I was doing and brought me to the school counselor, saying, “it’ll be okay, we messed up kids gotta stick together.” I do miss that friend. The counselor called my dad, and that’s when he finally found out all that was going on with me. I thought mom had told him. Guess not. He had a bit of resentment for us not telling him for a while. But, he did try to change. A little.
College, I tried to kill mused twice, both by overdosing. The first time was almost a surefire success. Both times because I was afraid of what would happen if I failed. I didn’t want to face my dad if that happened.
After the second time I was hospitalized at a place in my hometown. Stayed for a week. Not much improvement, but I faked it well enough.
After a bad academic semester, I went back home. Flunked out. Some of it was my doing, most was out of my control.
Came home, started school again at a local community college. Tried to kill myself again, this time by going to a parking garage. I was going to jump, but then a friend at the time came up out of the blue. He had no idea what was going on when the cops showed up.
Hospitalized again.
Shortly before that, I was convicted of a misdemeanor of theft (which has been cleared from my record) and I remember the genuine hatred my dad showed to me all the way up to the court date and about a year after that during probation and even afterwards.
He never was the most forgiving person in my life. I guess that’s why I find it impossible to forgive myself.
I have so many regrets, too many to write down.
So, flash forward to now. Dropped out of college, because I was burned out and I don’t believe it’s for me anyway. Looking to go into a trade school, but I don’t know.
I don’t know what I want to do with my life.
Music was my first love, especially metal. Bands such as Demon Hunter and August Burns Red and The Devil Wears Prada were what started me on that. I loved the ideas of hope they gave.
However, I grew distant from the faith they preached. I’m not a spiritual person anymore.
This was due in part to my dad.
Especially with how he tried to label the music that gave me hope and motivation as “evil” and “worsening your depression.”
I’ve come to the conclusion that I still want to make metal music and give hope and motivation to others the way it did for me. I just know he won’t like it. It’s always was his approval I desperately craved, but never seemed to get.
It’s hard to let stuff like that go. Hard to kill those habits.
I hate myself.
I genuinely hate myself the same way my dad showed me after the misdemeanor.
I’ve tried to kill myself three times but that didn’t work. Now I when I want to I lose motivation to do it because it hasn’t worked before.
I don’t feel at home anywhere. Not at my parents and not in the apartment I currently live in.
I do stuff for creative outlets every now and then, but I don’t feel as much joy or escape in them as I once did. I still try to do them, hoping the spark will reignite.
I’ve rambled on enough.
To sum it up, I know where my problems are rooted and how.
I’ve let a lot of shit go, but then it seems like I still can’t.
I can’t living anymore, but I know attempting suicide won’t work.
I need help.
I’ve been to therapists, and I don’t trust them.
I take meds, but that only can do so much s
Help.