Fractured Reflections

I remember those beautiful moments of clarity, in the drive back home after a day of school, that sublime serenity, that freedom of thought, that comforting detatchment from all worries and worldly concerns. It was blissful, and invigorating.

And now those moments are gone.

Now all I find in my solitude are those hateful thoughts, those stressful questions in dire need of answers, that mind-numbing emotion and that cloud of confusion. The rides back home are no longer ones of bliss, of content or joy. They are torture, the moments between actions that force my mind to wander, not aimlessly, but listlessly, uncertain.

Who am I anymore? What am I doing? Why am I such a failure of a human being? Why can’t I understand myself anymore? Where did I go? Will I ever find out?

I bite my fingers, and press down. I don’t go as far as to cut through my skin, but I leave marks. Not deep, and not gruesome, but temporary, like my own mood, like my own emotions, like myself. I look out to that once inspiring view, that which used to excite me and give me reason to smile. But it does not look the same. The grass, the sky, the buildings, they are all dull. They are not inspiring, they are gloomy, because I am gloomy. Nothing can look as optimistic as it once did. The scars may fade, but they are not gone. The scenery passes and I am again submerged in my own selfish self-hatred, my own inadequacies, my own loathing.

Why am I so weak? Why am I such a societal failure? I can’t talk with anyone. Not even my best of friends can see my problems. No, they can, they just have their own, and need me to express need in order to show any compassion. They aren’t selfish, they just don’t know. God, I am an idiot. What can’t I do wrong? I will never escape this vicious cycle. I will never amount to anything. I am worthless. My aspirations will only ever be that, aspirations. I am a burden.

I really don’t deserve to exist. I should honestly kill myself.

I play out the scene in my head. Second period, bell rings. Cue the song, some weird cinematic camera angles for my narcissistic side, I pull out the revolver, tap my best friend on the shoulder and my other good friend as well. They turn to see the gun in my mouth, headed for the brain. A true smile, wide and teary-eyed, happily closed eyes, a soft wave, a muffled, “I love you guys.”, and click. Fade to black.

But I can’t, can I. I would only become a bigger burden if that happened. Funeral costs, raising a kid for all that time jus for a suicide, emotional damage to the people that cared, not to mention ruining some shirts and the back wall. Probably get the carpet stained as well. I can’t. What a pain.

I let go a mental maniacally happy laugh.

Life really isn’t fair, is it?

That flurry of comments and feelings rushes back.

“I can respect feeling lonely, feeling worthless, but I can’t respect excuses.”

“I love your wit, your funny comments, your stature as someone I can talk to about the serious things.” I have none of those qualities. No you don’t.

”I don’t think you appreciate your time alone with yourself.” How can I, feeling as I do, making ‘excuses’, being worthless, hating myself?”

“You need to learn to love yourself. And you need to build self-confidence.” Easier said than done. I am nothing worth loving. And a worthless pile of trash will not feel good about itself.

I shake and shudder and get goosebumps along my back and the nape of my neck. And then I get those painful pinprick feelings that hurt and invite uneasiness and shuffling. In an instant the car is burning, and I am sweating, nervous, anxious, and horribly uncomfortable. I bite my hands with a fervor, and it doesn’t help. I shake more and more. This is torture.

I get now what Hamlet meant when he used the term, ‘mortal coil’.

And suddenly we are home. I am home. I am free.

I exit the car, the feelings go away and I rush, rush to my room. I am free.

And yet, I am caged. I am a slave.

I think to myself of what I can do to occupy my mind. To move away from this pain. And I find it. What a painful quarter of an hour. I busy myself.

And I dread the next day.