121 People A Day

No. Shut up and listen for a change. Listen to all the things you were too dense to pick up on, all the things you were too high and mighty to accept, and all the things you were too smart to pay attention to. Because it’s not about being sad. It’s about being fucking broken.

It’s about knowing that if you disappeared from the face of the planet, the only people who would notice are your bosses, because everyone else is too self absorbed to see what’s really going on.

It’s about knowing that you are expendable. That no one ever has and never will really need you around. If you were to die right this instant, you would simply be replaced by a better, much more stable person, and they would never even miss you.

It’s about knowing that you can never say a god damned word to anyone else about what goes on inside your head because the people you trust are soooo much better than you, that they don’t care about your “existential problems.” That if you aren’t hungry, out of money, or in physical agony, they don’t really care. And the only reason they care when you are any of those things is because it makes them feel better about themselves to think that they were there for you in your “darkest times.”

Like they have any idea what your dark times look like. Bitch, I wish I were just hungry. I wish my problems were tangible. You couldn’t handle a tenth of the turmoil I experience on a daily basis, so sit your self-righteous ass down.

You have no idea what I’ve been through. Do you know what it’s like to attend your mother’s funeral? Or your father’s funeral? Or to be beaten to a pulp on a daily basis and made to believe that you deserved it, because you were worthless, and didn’t deserve to live? Or to watch your best friend get squashed like a bug by a garbage truck? Or to be abandoned by everyone you cared about because those things messed you up so bad that you woke up screaming from the nightmares and the flashbacks?

Do you know what it’s like for a doctor to tell you to say your last goodbyes to those you love, and for no one to give a shit when you tell them the surgeon thinks you have less than a fifty percent chance of surviving the operation?

Do you have any idea what it’s like to be locked away inside the depths of your own depravity, convinced you should never have been born? Told by numerous people that you were a mistake, an abomination, and deserved to die before you even hit puberty?

Yeah, I thought so.

I don’t need your pity. It is worthless to me. I don’t even need your understanding. It does nothing for me. What I need is a moment to simply reveal the demons that reside within my soul. For I ceased to be human long ago, and all this darkness that was poured into me has nowhere left to go but outward. I am nothing. Whatever value may have existed has long since been destroyed.

I am not a person in the eyes of others. I am a project, some object to be “fixed.” Or I am a lesson, one to be pitied and studied. Or I am a toy, one to be yanked around, because, after all, if I am not a person, why treat me as if I am human? I have become Frankenstein’s monster, an abhorrent beast, incapable of feeling and undeserving of any decency or respect.

I didn’t always think this way. There was a time I considered myself almost human. But my own humanity was snuffed out, beaten down, and crushed, until the only thing left was this shell. This body. There is nothing left inside. So perhaps you are correct; perhaps I am not worth anything.

Perhaps I should just disappear, and stop belaboring those around me with my presence. Perhaps I should cut short my encumbering existence, releasing those bound to me. I am unnecessary, unwanted, and un-fucking-believably messed up.

And yet…

And yet, there is a small part of me that refuses to give up. Despite your repeated rejections, despite the unending barrage of evidence that I do not belong, despite waking up every day to a world that wants nothing more than to see my flaming corpse in the street…

If I have lost everything else, I have not lost my sense of spite. I may have lost my will to live, but I will never lose my desire to stick it to the man. To prove that, regardless of the shit hand I have been dealt, I am still here, and I am a force to be reckoned with.

I will never change the world. I will likely drift away, to some other town, state, or country where I am unknown. I will stay there until I come to this point again. And then, I will move on. I have no home, other than the very skin and bones I wear every day. And even then, I do not feel at home within myself. So I wander the globe, looking for some place I can call my own, some place I belong, knowing in my heart of hearts that no such place exists. I am a gypsy, destined to move as the wind, never in one place for very long.

Even my thoughts meander with no real purpose, jumping from place to place, unable to settle. Not that this matters to you. In six months, I will have faded far from even the deepest corners of your memory, having been replaced by some new fad or face.

THAT’S what it’s about. At its core, this darkness you call depression is the numbing to all things human. It is the crushing understanding that everything about you is pointless, meaningless, and more than replaceable.

I am not sad. I am not feeling “humdrum.” I am destroyed. I am worthless. There is no reason to continue. There is no way out. There are no options. Nothing, in the long run, will ever change.

And every day, 121 people feel the very same way.

And most suicides can be prevented. Most people who are talked down from the ledge say that all they needed was for one person just to FUCKING SMILE AT THEM.

No, their mental state is not your fault. No, their circumstances are not under your control. But maybe have a heart. Maybe don’t be such an asshole all the time. Maybe remember that the world does not revolve around your pompous ass. Maybe remember that the sack of meat that you treat with such utter contempt is a human being. Maybe remember that all it takes is a smile, a greeting, a simple gesture, to make all the difference to someone else.

There were studies done a long time ago about the effects of overcrowding on rats. The rats became hostile, depressed, and suicidal. But we are not rats. There may be 7 billion of us, but each of us can do something. Each of us has the potential to save a life, whether we know it or not. So stop being such a dick and just smile at someone. That may be all it takes.

Because it’s not about feeling sad. It is about feeling human again.





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