I am actually a grumpy cat. I whine; I silently curse at people; I mock people in my head; I see them as dirty beings; I simply hate them. I am used to this kind of feeling—I am used to be … chill, expressionless, because I know deeply in my head that I got a bad temper. If I decided to interfere with people, they would annoy me so much it ruined this ‘chill’ wall I’ve been building since so long.
I am used to be a lone wolf. I am used to these random episodes of feeling lonely and kind of sad. But not this time. The term ‘depressed’ may seems too extreme compared to what it clinically means, but I don’t know how to express this so let me use the term ‘depressed’ only this time.
I can’t exactly recall when this really started, when this started consuming me. I live my life as it is. I know that I give a bad perspective about this world and everything around me, and I’ve been doing this since … I don’t know, junior high? About 14-15 years old? But when I think about it again, I’ve already despised people for so long. Maybe since I was in elementary, since the first time I was bullied.
Or, no? I’m not sure.
Back to perspective … yes, I’ve been living like this. I avoid social relationship, as much as I can, because I’m afraid that any kind of social interactions I build with anyone will become nothing, as it was fake at all. Out of all insecurities I have, the worst one is that I’m afraid people were just faking—they have no interest at me, at all. That’s why I don’t chat people. That’s why I left chat messages unopened. That’s why I don’t reply their chats nor answer their phone calls. You might say, “But what if the call was urgent?” I just can’t. I am afraid.
That would be the first abnormal thing I do. Since I can’t recall when this depression really started, I can’t remember the trigger. Or, maybe I can?
I remember watching Split a few days ago. I love the movie, since I have an interest in psychological issues—at least, some of them. I didn’t realize that the movie overwhelmed me … or, kind of? So I called R the night after and, although I know that I don’t know when the depression started, I just realized that this may be the trigger.
The fact that I am walking on a dead road, a dead path of emptiness and nothingness. The terrifying fate of mine that I have to encounter, just a few months from now … a year, the longest, if I am lucky enough or crazy enough to take Satan’s offer (if he does exist). You don’t get it? It’s okay, it’s my fault that I secured this too much. I just can’t tell anybody, not any of you, even if you’re listed as one of my longlife bestfriends. I just can’t. This is too much of a secret. You’ll end up disappointed, and when I realized that telling you was a wrong decision, I’d know that it’s too late. You are long gone, while I have no friend anymore. I am more alone than before.
Are you happy? Are you happy for being you? Are you happy for knowing that you’ll have a good life? Affairs, baby-blue syndrome, unloyal spouse? I’ll take them all for you, only for a little chance of experiencing what I’m not going to get. Are you happy with them? Are you really? Because I am happier than you now, but not tomorrow.
Tomorrow, when they’re walking you down the aisle, I’ll be the one who cherish you the most. And you, you, you, you, you, you, you, and also, at last, you. I’ll be happy. I will be.
I will be happy. I’ll let all the cries and sorrowness go away, alone with my sanity. I’ll never cry again. I’ll never cut myself again. I will never bleed again to fulfill my emptiness and disappointment. Not like now, when I eventually failed my a-year-long commitment to myself that I wouldn’t bleed myself anymore. I failed because I was too sad and fucked up. But you know what, when I was able to bleed myself, I felt the satisfaction. Just like the old times.
So what am I? A fucked up emo kid who’s still bleeding to cope with her moodswing? A desperate fool? No, I am not stupid. I am student of a world class university, remember? I study logical fallacies. I am smarter than most of you.
But, I bleed myself. I cry alone at night. I am imagining things. I am skeptic. I’ve dreamed of killing people and cut them into pieces. I’ve dreamed of revenge to no one.
What am I? A traumatized second grader? And unlucky girl who was intimidated by the school janitor? Fuck, it was 15 years ago and I am doing fine! Now, just now, why the fuck did I have to meet that fucking asshole again? Why the fuck did he was there? Sitting and staring back at me, and why didn’t I come back with a fucking knife to slit his throat? Or should I just chop his son and wife? Good idea, huh?
Now what? What am I really? A student of a world class university? Someone’s 6-years-partner who live in shadow? A self-harmer? A traumatized kid? A bullied ugly fatass? Someone with mental disorder yet too afraid to seek help (oh yes, help) from a psychiatrist? A nice daughter who’s going to graduate to get a fucking job and earn money? A skeptic who doesn’t believe in supernatural beings? A withered author? A human?
A fucking human?
What are you really? You’re not even a human. Just fucking flesh and fucking bones.
And what are you, really, to determine what I really am?