Somebody please tell me how to live because I’m obviously doing something wrong. Somebody please tell me how to be alive because I have messed up too many times to try to try again. Somebody please tell me how to live because I feel like I should be dead, I feel like I’ve reached an end, paused to stare at it, and then crossed into it, disregarded everything that could have and would have ever existed to be in a state of nonexistence and spend hours talking about suicide with a sweet young boy who I thought didn’t know me, but who just might have the potential to. Now he says that he’d only ever kill himself if he had nothing left to learn from life, and I am envious because I want to have only one path that leads to me ending my life instead of all of them. He says he thinks about suicide the way the President thinks about nuclear attacks: just as a plan, in case he ever needs it. And then there’s me: telling him to stop it because he better not ever need it, while I’m actually trying not to plan anything so that when that day comes, and I know it will come, I will have to take a few minutes to plan it then, instead of leaping right into it. I guess some part of me isn’t ready to die if I’m still hoping that taking a minute to plan will be taking a minute to rethink it. Or maybe I’m just too scared to see where my mind will take me if I let my thoughts continue on down that path.
And somewhere this turned from prose to poetry, from asking for a path to life to looking for the road to death. And I’m surprisingly happy for a girl who just run a sharp edge over her leg until she bled. Maybe it’s endorphins. Or maybe it’s like I said, just chemicals in my head all messed up and mixed up and happy at all the wrong things and sad at all the right things. And I mean that like I’m happy with the things that should make me sad and sad with the things that should make me happy, not like I’m happy when I shouldn’t be but sad when I should be resulting in always being unhappy, because I’m happy right now. I just shouldn’t be.
And I don’t think I want to go to college. And I don’t want to look at cap and gown packages because right now I don’t want to go to graduation. I don’t want to make plans to go shopping for prom dresses, because my excuse for not wanting to go to prom isn’t that it’s just too mainstream, but that my brain is unfairly unhinging and wishing for nonexistence before I get that far in life. All I want to do is nothing. I want to sit with Christopher Robin in a tree and say, “Oh, nothing,” when someone asks how I’m feeling. And it won’t be grammatically correct and I will not care.
That. That right there. That is what I actually want. I want to not care. I want to not care so hard that grammar flies out the window. I want to not care so hard that I ask that boy out before his computer crashes. I want to not care so hard that I could drive off a bridge. I want to not care so hard I die.
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