Do you think you’re crazy?
I think I might be.
What do you think crazy is? Are you crazy if you aren’t normal? I don’t think that is what makes a person crazy. I don’t think normal exists. Normal is an abstract ideal that is completely unattainable. It is a form of control. The normal is something that people believe they want to be, and in their aspiration for the normal they completely ignore most of what exists. I don’t know what exists. But I know the normal does not.
But alas, I do believe I am crazy.
Do you look at your past and see shame and regret and blackness and nothing else? I do. When you picture those closest to you, what do you see? I see the slight twitch in their face that occurred when I said something that hurt them, or when they were puzzled by my demeanour. I see them when they are angry. I see them when they are sad. I see them when they are in pain. I see the harshness of their lives. I see how I hinder them. I see the bad parts of everything and everyone. I feel the bad parts of everything and everyone.
I see myself as baggage.
Do you think about the future? I do. I see pain and suffering that hasn’t happened yet. I see an extension of the disappointment I feel in the present.
Do you feel pride? Have you been proud before? Is that a thing? Is that a real thing? The only thing I ever thought I felt pride in is now a memory buried beneath every thing I could have done better in those moments, every missed opportunity to help. Every word I left unsaid and every impure thought I had.
Sometimes I hear the word happiness and a strange, thick darkness consumes my imagination. I am not sure if happiness is a real thing, but I know what people mean when they use that word. It still brings darkness to my mind. I don’t know the happiness.
Many times a day I imagine myself putting a tie around my neck, tying the long end of it to the doorknob and slowly sitting down, eventually losing consciousness and the ability to relieve my neck of my body weight. Do you ever think about that? Have you ever thought about that?
Is that normal?
I lay down each night with the relief of someone who has finished a marathon, because I got through today, and I don’t have to pretend for the next eight hours.
When you smile, does the word “lie” flash across your mind?
Are you nervous to see your friends? Do you believe, deep down, that everyone close to you hates you? Do you wonder how they could possibly not?
I always have.
Do you think I am crazy?
I am a failure. I will be a failure until the day I die. This will be the case regardless of what I achieve henceforth, because I have wasted almost 25 years of life being ashamed, being worried, feeling worthless, feeling small. I have spat in the face of my youth and I will never get it back. Do you feel like that?
Do you feel that you are a stain you can’t wipe off of yourself?
What do you feel you have to offer?
I can offer irritation. I can offer a bleak outlook. I offer dry humour that thinly veils my complete and utter lack of self-esteem. It is not enough.
Do you confront yourself with violent rage every time your mouth shuts in conversation? Every time you see a mirror? Every time you feel sad? I hate myself for writing this.
Isn’t it ever so self-indulgent?
But I am just asking a question. Do you relate?
Does it matter if you do?
If you feel my pain, is that a good thing? Is that encouraging?
I think I am unworthy of love. I see not why someone would love me. My luck with love ran out, and that was my fault too. Love is probably not real anyway. What I identified in myself, as love, was probably a form of desperation. Of a clawing insecurity begging to be comforted. To be saved. And so I loved. Ever so deeply, because I needed someone to care enough to stay, and I knew they would not…