I've been feeling a
bit down lately. Emptiness has crept into my life, and I don't fully know why.
My past is haunting me (again), like I’m sure it haunts every one of us. Always
creeping in the back of your mind, pushing memories back into your dreams, and the
moment you feel almost alright it creeps back in and shatters your world.
It doesn't shatter me like it used to, for one I’m no longer
calculated the speed of a moving car to see if it'd actually kill me if I
jumped in front of it. Nor am I wondering how many stories it'd take to kill me
as swiftly as possible.
I've never tried
killing myself because for some reason I believe in Hell. I know most people
say they believe in God, and heaven and I do believe in those things. But hell
is what keeps me going, because so many people need to be thrown in there, and
there are a few people I can never forgive, and I can never accept that they'll
go unpunished. So I believe in hell. I believe that one day all those assholes
will be there, the people that hurt others and never pay for it. And thus I couldn’t
kill myself, because in my religion if you kill yourself you go straight to
hell. And facing those assholes for the rest of eternity was far worse than
facing them in my memories, or even occasionally in real life. Despite
everything I have some hilarious stories to go along with those very few
occasions, but to me they were never funny.
That kind of
thinking was melded into my mind for over two years. Before that came
depression, for three years (I think), there was a time where I’d tell people
that I want to kill myself. I begged for help, but there was no one there, and
when I finally gave up I was relieved. I used to think that people that commit
suicide are assholes, because they're so selfish that they don’t care that
they're hurting everyone they've ever known. And then I understood, and I
stopped caring, and then that ounce of hope was taken away from me. But then
things got better. One day I woke up and realized I wasn’t going to die that
day, or the day after that, perhaps I’d live for another 60 years, or maybe a
few hours. No matter, I wanted to have a good life for that time period. I didn’t
care when I died anymore, but I told myself that I deserved a better life for
that time. That I should be living my life as I await death.
I never truly
started living, but I changed my life. I left the hell I was in, I ripped the venomous
people out of my life, and I got a better life. It was never perfect, but I
tried things I never would have. Some of those things sucked, others were awesome.
I met some amazing people, and some terrible ones. I even met amazing people
that simply didn’t fit into my life. They made me feel bad, but nevertheless
they were good people, but I replaced them with less awesome people that made
me feel better about myself.
All in all I ran
away. I ran away from the country I was living in, the friends that were
hurting me, and everything. But in life you can't run, and some of that will
always creep back into your life. That's what happened this summer. Everything
came back, and I wasn’t sure I can handle it. But I told myself it was only for
a couple of months, and then it'd be over, but something’s followed me here.
My worthlessness, my failures, they're everywhere now, and I need to stop
running away from them. I need to finally face them, and make the best out of
them. They’ll always be a part of me, but maybe; just maybe, someday they'll be
a good part of me. I might never trust anyone ever, and maybe I will, but
it doesn’t matter. I won’t judge my life by how normal I’ve become, or how much
I can trust people, but by how much I change in it every day attempting to find
something better.
Here's to living
life to the fullest, or living the best life you can until living is more
appealing than dying, and if you never achieve that then live awaiting a lost
lover that will be sweeter with a better life.
