The ultimatum, the ultimatum, the ulti-fucking-matum. It dragging me so fucking far down.
I need You to be there for me, Miss. I'm giving this all I have. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't relax. Not with this fucking ultimatum looming over my head. No matter what I try, it's just one more tick against me. Another, and another, and another. Always piling up. Even if I discover something. Even if I can fix myself, I don't know... I don't think I can undo what has been. I don't think I can compensate. And the ultimatum looms ever closer.
You're always mad, and I always know why. You tell me, sometimes. I always ask, because I can't trust myself, but that usually just makes You more mad.
It always seems hopeless. Like I'm some kind of commanding officer directing troops made entire;y of You. Against an army of You. And I'm losing. I'm always losing. No matter how I maneuver, no matter how I position, it's coming down.
I miss You and I want to talk with You and be with You so badly, and I feel like a stranger in my own home. And I can't do any of those, and I can't do anything about it, because You're always mad. No matter what. Just seeing me makes You mad.
And it's always just overhead, drooling on me, waiting for the end.
I'm fucked. I know I'm fucked, You know I'm fucked, and I'm sure everyone else can see just how fucked I am as well. I'm the head fucking engineer on the fuck train, running nonstop, full fucking steam to fucktown. And I'm trying to toss toothpicks into the wheels, trying to slow it down, anything, anything I can do to stop this fucking path. And it's worthless. It's an empty gesture by a desperate fuckass.
I need to talk to You, to try and at least do anything, to try and enlighten myself, to anything. But I can't get close to You. I can't even fucking speak right, let alone communicate right, and by no means tailor my words for Your understanding. Hell, if You ever read this, it'll probably just be fucking gibberish punctuated with a lot of fucks. And it'll probably piss You off.
So I guess I just have to stop everything.
I'm sorry I'm not sufficient. When the inevitable happens, I hope You and Eli find Y/yourselves in a good place, far, far away from me. It's clear as I am, I'm nothing but a poison.
I'd feel pity for myself, but that's so fucking pitiful I can't bring myself to do it.
The only thing keeping me going, is at least I know I broke my back for this. If I hadn't given this all I had, I'd hounestly consider killing myself. But at least I fought for it. I had an option between being a lazy pussy, or being an incompetent halfwit, and I chose the latter.
I'm not done fighting, and I haven't given up. But I know I'm done for. We/re done for.
It radiates in my fingertips, sometimes. The imaginary feel of my hands around her neck. Slowly caressing the life from her. The look of fright and surprise painted on the inside of my eyelids. The ringing sound of desperate strains for air welling in my ears.
How sweet, how due, her death would be. How desperate I am, for her departure from our living realm.
Thankfully, I shall outlive her. I won't ever kill her, but my fantasies grant me strength.
I've never been much of an optimist, or one to find silver linings in things. I wouldn't say so to a stranger, but life is a series of really... awful, sick jokes. At least for me, anyway. (Perhaps it's my perspective. That's a sick joke in itself.)
The people I'm close to constantly tell me otherwise. In one way or another, explicitly and not.
"You're always so cynical, Jessy. It's not healthy." "You're playing the victim. Life is what you make it." "Why focus on the bad things, when there's so much good going on?"
(These are not actual quotes, my memory isn't of that caliber.)
Maybe they're right. I mean, I am a cynic. There's no question about that. It's as plain as the nose on my face.
I do focus on the bad things, and I do sometimes adopt a victim's mentality. Sometimes, it's completely unwarranted. Sometimes, it isn't.
Looking back, as I spend a good amount of my time doing, I was a fantastic kid. I always brought home good grades. I never got in fights. I didn't start shit with my teachers. I wasn't well liked, sure, but I was happy. I didn't give a fuck about who liked me.
The biggest thing for me as a kid, even bigger than my birthday or Christmas or Independence Day, was summer vacation. I'd wake up when I wanted, eat what I wanted for breakfast, and then proceed to do whatever I wanted for the rest of the day. I played outside, read books, watched TV, kicked-ass at video games, stayed up late. It was awesome. I loved summers, because it meant freedom.
These days, I hate the summer. I have the freedom I had as a kid. Right now. I wake up when I want. I stay up as late as I want. I eat what I want, when I want, and how much I want. I still read books, and play outside, and watch TV, and kick-ass at video games. I even have friends now, that do all of it with me. I still don't give a shit what people think about me, but it's nice to be liked.
I have problems and responsibilities, but I did as a kid too, and no more than I had then.
But no matter what, every fucking mid-March until mid-September, I hate everything. I turn up inside myself and bitch about the smallest things. Nothing holds my interest. Nothing matters. It's difficult to focus on anything, because no matter what, I'm always thinking. "You are a piece of shit. Your friends are pieces of shit, because they like you, and who likes shit, but other shit? You live in a piece of shit. It's no surprise, considering your family is shit. How could they not be though, when everyone is shit? Furthermore, can they really be blamed, when the entire Earth itself is one massive ball of shit?"
People, again, these people, always seem to have some sagely advice to offer on this topic. "You just need to grit through it." "You need to see a doctor."
That's great, I do, and I do, probably, but why? Why? Why should I care? What's the point? I've been gritting through it. It's not made it any easier, ever. Not today. Not a week ago. Not a month ago. Not a year ago. Not ten fucking years ago.
I've seen doctors too. I talk about my feelings, and they tell me "I'm sorry to hear that. I'm glad you're opening up. You can't let these feelings bring you down, though. I know it's hard, but you need to keep on. I'm writing you a prescription." The psychology aspect failed me. The pharmacology aspect failed me. I've experienced what they have to offer, and it's not worth my while.
So I'm going to keep on gritting through, because, why not? It doesn't really matter, does it? Not to me. But it makes other people worry less. Just because I'm unhappy doesn't mean I have to share it.
But that inner monologue is always there. Sniping away at me, with barbed linguistics. Tailored to pain me. "Life, in it's infinite balance, took what you loved most as a child, when you were vulnerable and unaware of loss, and transformed it over years and years into the thing you hate and fear most, leaving you with nothing but lukewarm triggers to depression of what you used to have, and won't ever have again."
Fucking seeing people on Facebook that I haven't seen since like, fucking middle school. They haven't changed a bit. They still look the same. Talk the same. Have the same likes. Their about me is lyric from a song written in 2004. Fuckin' time warp, man. Fuckin' bad times, man. I haven't changed for shit either.