Aftermath of My Shame

A story about a man who assumes life is a big catastrophe waiting to happen.

In my mind I am a poorly frightened boy, not brave enough to succumb to his own nightmares or strong enough to study his work. For a long period of time my life has belittled me with the terrors of the past so long ago and the affliction caused by my heartless soul that made me a monster. My mind, as others do think, have overruled this phase and have conquered the doubt and contrition that brought them down to tears or gave them a reason to think of what pain can we beset upon ourselves not to damage but to teach ourselves that we’re not animals? I can no longer speak of my happiness or the last time I have ever experienced the sheer act of joy; too long ago to remember and too far to attain. As time goes by I wonder about the tribulations of what society has invented and what society has taught me to believe, if they are beneficial or if they’re deceptions. What will I do when I become older if I’ve done so many of these things and nothing left is to be done? I cannot love another person if they’re dead, I cannot sing about my accomplishments if I’m not  able to breathe normally, and I don’t have the heart to acknowledge the youth when they abandoned me in these cold deserts of ice and solitude. These deserts are now our homes.

I took the time to sort out the problems and possibilities of what was causing my eccentric behaviour and most of my observations were successful, they all lead to one answer. I was depressed. The meaning of the word and just the expression alone made me reluctant, too petrified to decipher it. I could already tell that my mental stimulant had taken effect and the drugs that were left on the study desk were all clambered untidily. Cocaine still slipped from the pool table like a broken hourglass that slipped like a ghost onto the floor and the whiff of tobacco made my stomach churn but brought out the most veritable effect. I considered taking them to assist to my own troubling risks, I never pursued drug use before or let alone drink. Drugs was a first, my mind would deteriorate into fragments and paint an image of ridiculing terror or enjoyable apparitions. Depression, again was like a puzzle that was needed to be deciphered only by intellectual minds. Those with the same mental disability have no clue what they’re going through and never know how to stop it. It leads them to do horrible things like killing themselves without acknowledging their accomplishments, it’s what I call a Dead End, a trapped door within the labyrinth of depression which makes me and others so susceptible to the effect of the labyrinth, it’s like poison travelling to your brain and killing you from the inside.

My commitment to my psychiatrists was that these images needed to be suppressed and buried under the decrepit parts of my brain, only to not feel them, only to not feel the pain that would, later in life, consume me entirely. One of these days I would need to think about the horrible and the beautiful and see if there was any other way this would’ve never happened. The day when the blood spilled from my arms or when the children on the playground over years past had diverted my emotions of an innocent childhood to one that I was unsure of. Their rumours, were they true? Would I be able to handle the distress and the guilt that came from these rumours that now everyone assumed was me, what seemed to be my label, what seemed to be my future. It was a waste. The miserable days spent as the educators lectured us about history and the studies of how lead would affect our community if it is primarily used in today’s economy. The care our parents had given us, they lied to us and battered us with their own ignorance, making me feel unloved and critical about my surroundings or my anxiety.

I am depressed. What’s the point of living if there is no use for joy or satisfaction when friends are ignorant or judgemental? And I know that from their inexperienced behaviour. They’re all just ignorant. Too busy to talk and too worried to care. If there were less ignorance in the world, it doesn’t matter because there’s still ignorance.

We all die, we all become what we are today as we are living, rubbish. We are all selfish in some way and we can never get along. The cries of the dead only drive me mad and the rebellious talk of them only get me feisty and rippled. Depression and madness are consumed by the world and it will always exist in some sort of form. Like a monster, like me.

Goodbye,

To those who said that they cared but they ignored the cry for help.