Dead Stars

My anger is as hard to describe as color to the blind, and as deep as the Marinas Trench. There is no other way to describe it. I can’t even ascribe it to a certain point in my life at this time, but I know it’s been built-up over a long period of my life, laid carefully and cautiously like radioactive brick in an unforgiving wall. It radiates and permeates my every fiber and it causes me no end of problems in my waking life. Sometimes it even follows me into my dreams, killing or wounding me even before I open my eyes to unleash it upon an unsuspecting world. No one deserves a life like this, feeling like they’re holding the core of a dying star in their chest. Having nowhere to point it or dispose of its inescapable gravity, heat, or rot.

No sane person would want to live this way. So why do I? Why does it constantly stay with me, even though conceivably it should have been disposed of with the rest of the refuse that made up my abandoned teenage years?

More questions come to mind: Why was I singled out? Why me? What did I do to deserve the treatment I have received? Was it my hair? Was it my ugly face? Was it me trying to be funny or smart or cool? What was it that earned all that hate? What made them want to step all over me and make me so mad when they continually did so? Am I merely a cur in an alpha wolf’s world? Why?

The questions fill me with empty static, a state that has become as synonymous to me as the word “entropy”. After the rage subsides, I feel nothing. Still. Even through all of the years of trying to be better, of understanding more of myself, of trying to learn what triggers me, why it triggers me, and how to stop it from triggering me… I still can’t escape its pull. It’s systemic. Maybe it’s not the universe, maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m the one that’s broken, the one that needs to just “go away”. It seems that in the last 14 years of my life, the thought of Death placing his impossibly-cold grasp on my shoulder has never left me. It’s always there. Waiting in the wings. Waiting for me to just say “Fuck it. Let’s go.”

It’s the isolation that gets me. That feeling that no-one knows what you’re taking about or how to feel. They can’t know. They aren’t you. They can’t know about the long nights alone, staring at that hand-gun, how often you marveled at its inner-workings, how you kept it meticulously-clean and loaded with only one round chambered. And there it is. The Other. Referring to oneself in the abstract, trying to get away from it. That’s when the real problems start. Reality-checks don’t do much. All they do is reinforce the feeling in me that I am, in fact, the farthest away from any of them. Who are “them”? Everyone. Well, except me of course.

It’s sad. No-one knows how it feels to feel like the loneliest person on the planet, to feel that inescapable gravity-well in the pit of your stomach whenever you see other people doing the things you’ve always wanted to do. The person you’ve always wanted to talk to. That sullen lump in your throat when you realize that what is playing-out in front of you is one long cosmic joke… and you are the punch-line.

It doesn’t escape me at all to know that these feelings are not normal. I am, after all, human to the same extent that water is wet and fire is bright. So why is it that I seem to find it impossible to find a way to get past all that anger? The sullenness? The blinding rage? Maybe it’s because trust is a hard thing to come by. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever trusted anyone. Not even my parents (sorry, mom). The people I mistakenly believed could “make it all better” or somehow bring my attention to something that I had not yet grasped that would have helped me turned out to be stuck in the gravity of their own dead-weight as well. Maybe I’m not that different from Them after all. Maybe we can all have a big kum-ba-ya moment around a big-ass fire before watching each other’s B-reels and stabbing each other in the back.

Or maybe I could admit that I’m still bitter and angry after all of these years. That somehow, I got left behind. I was never popular, never friends with anyone. I was too weird, too far inside myself to be able to see anyone else. Apparently I’m just as damned as the rest of them, then. Because even though I was hiding inside myself, my room, and my head… no one came to my rescue. No one. Not a single person.

That’s what’s most damning, and that’s probably why I can’t trust. I can’t trust that someone doesn’t have ulterior motives, or isn’t trying to humiliate me in order to get a laugh or some kind of ego-boost. I can’t even trust myself in most situations to act “properly”, because often times what I want to do most of all is to flee into the relative safety of nature or my room. Most days, I want nothing to do with the outside world, and I would rather be left alone. Better that than to bear my soul to the world, scared and bitter as I am on the inside.

That’s where I am now. Or rather, that’s where I don’t want to be. Most days I just want someone to wrap their arms around me, hold me close under a blanket, and let me just pass-on. I could care less about sleeping, eating, or feeling. All that matters to me in those instances where I am at my most vulnerable, without any armor to speak-of, is even the hope of that connection. That singular thread of life. And some days, I still feel as though I have yet to find it.

Philosophers and therapists have told me many times that “self-love is the first step to being able to feel true happiness”. I have yet to find that self-love. I don’t know where it is or how I will find it or forge it, but I often times feel as though it will never find me. And so it goes, on-and-on, spinning into the future on its lazy arc. Or so it might seem. I don’t know where to start to learn how to love myself. From where I’m sitting, there isn’t much to love. I want to be proven wrong somehow. Maybe someday I will be.

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