A/N: This is chapter one.
Providence
formerly known as: Untitled (6)
My life is shit.
I'm not saying that the entirety of it is shit. It has been shit, and currently is shit. However, it has not always been this way.
Right now, I live in some sort of half-way house and have a goddamned curfew. I'm an adult with a curfew for fuck's sake. As if I could feel any more insulted.
My current infatuation is my suicide, considering how I cannot commit it. It is simply not only my pride, but my strength. I wish to do it because I feel I deserve such a punishment. If I had any honor, I would be dead by now, in order to not shame myself and the reason for my self-homicide: my family.
A long time ago, I cared nothing for them. Now, it is agony to live without them. They perished because of me; because I was too weak to protect them. I should have died in their place, or, at least, with them. I have lost the only things I had grown to treasure, and there is nothing that can replace that void inside of me.
It happened several years ago. I should have seen it coming, for how often history repeated itself. How could I have been so blind? Perhaps I was destined to be. That has always been my problem: too focused on one thing to miss the bigger picture. I was too focused to save them.
Millions of people died in the attack, including my family and..friends. I survived by a weird stroke of luck. Uub finally followed in his mentor's footsteps. I envy the boy, but cannot hate him as I have hated his teacher.
Uub found me in the debris and offered his help. I refused it. How could I accept him? I did not deem it appropriate. He let me be.
At first, I thought I could handle it. I knew they were in Heaven. I knew I would die, sometime. The pain, however, intensified with time, and now it is too much to bear. Nothing distracts me from the memories of their pain. Nothing is here to give me solace from my failure.
It was unlike me to feel this..this sensation - this ache. My eyes burned and my throat was raw for many nights. Quite frequently enough, they still become that way. Nothing could ebb the pain, and nothing could appease the depression. I had never known depression before. Humiliation had plagued me, but it was not as intense as this emotion. This saddness consumed me - consumes me - in every thing I do in every day life. Every where I go, I am reminded of my family being murdered.
Sometimes, I wonder if it is because I have done such atrocities. Is this karma or coincidence? Either way, there is no escape from it. A lonely bed greets me every night. It is silent and still in my residence.
It is true: You should never have to bury your own children.
They shouldn't of suffered because of my mistakes.
I mourn for them. I have for the past several years. At first, I knew it was a normal response. As time went on, I suspected..something else. I was not eating on a consistant basis. I had trouble focusing (or being distracted from the pain, depending on how you look at it). I found myself unable to function as I normally did. I couldn't even train anymore. I let my pride crumble away until I eradicated it by seeking outside help.
"I want to kill myself." I told a doctor, some several years ago.
"Why?" he'd asked.
"Because I don't want to fucking live." I said.
I don't like doctors, much less ones that analyze your life and try to convince you that things can, and will, get better.
Needless to say, I was deemed a threat to myself. I was put into a half-way house sort-of-thing. I live with other people who may or may not be suicidal. Most of them move in and out pretty quick, but I am a resident now, not just a guest.
There's a lady on the first floor called Mrs. Tarintino. She's sort of like the land lord, and she has to check up on me. If I don't come home by curfew, she has to call the police. When I eventually come home, she scolds me before making me hot cocoa and shipping me off to bed. Never, in my whole life, has anyone treated me in such a way. I pity her, because she cares about me.
Due to this fact (that she cares for me), I have given her a few good scares. The first time I tried to kill myself, I threw my body over the sixth floor balconey. My room is 603, and I decided that trying to end my life sounded a lot better than moping around all night like an insomniac. I landed directly on my head, where I proceed to cry because I had managed to somehow not be deceased. At this point, and until this day, I have no pride to interfere with my physical expression of inner pain. I let myself cry because it barely fends off more intense negative feelings. Mrs. Tarintino took me to the hospital where they found no injuries.
Later, I attempted to overdose on over-the-counter medication. I went to the nearest pharmacy and bought several boxes of Tylenol® and NyQuil® and proceeded to down them all at once. What resulted was the biggest vomit fest I'd ever endured. My body outright rejected the overdose and refused to digest it, choosing instead to expel it all in a massive torrent of what I can only describe as extreme nastiness. Mrs. Tarintino felt bad for me, and helped clean everything up. She's a brave, old lady for enduring that kind of mess.
I even tried to hang myself. Mrs. Tarintino screamed when she came into my room and found me with my feet dangling in midair. I assured her that I was still alive by saying, "Don't worry, nothing's happened for four hours, so I doubt I'll stop breathing any time soon."
She thinks it's a miracle and a blessing that I haven't died yet. I think it's a curse. What good am I if I can't even kill myself?
I tried to explain this to my various therapists, but they don't seem to understand. I lost my family due to my own stupidity, how am I supposed to just move on from this?
One lady suggested that every time I start getting suicidal thoughts, that I should do something that makes me happy. I tried this approach, with little success. Firstly, I tried training, but it reminded me too much of all the fights I've lost, particularly this last one. I tried to do the things I enjoyed with my wife and/or kids, but it always reminded me of them. I tried making friends, but I'm too honest and my life is too unbelieveable for them. Most people think I made up my history to counter for my tremendous loss. I wish I had. I wish it was that easy.
The only thing that seemed to work was self-gratification. I can force myself to focus on this one simple task, and if I do it enough, it wears me out. Sleep is also one of the few times I am not tormented. I have difficulty deciding which is better: the bliss of unconsciousness or the bliss of an orgasm. Sometimes my wife haunts me, because the self-induced pleasure will remind me of the pleasure she had given me. Sometimes, I'm haunted in my dreams, by any number of things. It's difficult to say which is worse.
I have no hobbies. Most of the time I sit around thinking, but following what that lady - Dr. Reilly - suggested, I end up masturbating on a consistant basis. Thinking makes me depressed, and the more I think, the more depressed I become, hence my dilemma. I couldn't even consider having sex with anyone else, as it would dishonor the memory of my wife. I know she is waiting for me.
So this leaves me in an awkward stage. I cannot kill myself to join the ones I love, and I cannot find any enjoyment in my life.
My life is shit.
Providence
formerly known as: Untitled (6)
My life is shit.
I'm not saying that the entirety of it is shit. It has been shit, and currently is shit. However, it has not always been this way.
Right now, I live in some sort of half-way house and have a goddamned curfew. I'm an adult with a curfew for fuck's sake. As if I could feel any more insulted.
My current infatuation is my suicide, considering how I cannot commit it. It is simply not only my pride, but my strength. I wish to do it because I feel I deserve such a punishment. If I had any honor, I would be dead by now, in order to not shame myself and the reason for my self-homicide: my family.
A long time ago, I cared nothing for them. Now, it is agony to live without them. They perished because of me; because I was too weak to protect them. I should have died in their place, or, at least, with them. I have lost the only things I had grown to treasure, and there is nothing that can replace that void inside of me.
It happened several years ago. I should have seen it coming, for how often history repeated itself. How could I have been so blind? Perhaps I was destined to be. That has always been my problem: too focused on one thing to miss the bigger picture. I was too focused to save them.
Millions of people died in the attack, including my family and..friends. I survived by a weird stroke of luck. Uub finally followed in his mentor's footsteps. I envy the boy, but cannot hate him as I have hated his teacher.
Uub found me in the debris and offered his help. I refused it. How could I accept him? I did not deem it appropriate. He let me be.
At first, I thought I could handle it. I knew they were in Heaven. I knew I would die, sometime. The pain, however, intensified with time, and now it is too much to bear. Nothing distracts me from the memories of their pain. Nothing is here to give me solace from my failure.
It was unlike me to feel this..this sensation - this ache. My eyes burned and my throat was raw for many nights. Quite frequently enough, they still become that way. Nothing could ebb the pain, and nothing could appease the depression. I had never known depression before. Humiliation had plagued me, but it was not as intense as this emotion. This saddness consumed me - consumes me - in every thing I do in every day life. Every where I go, I am reminded of my family being murdered.
Sometimes, I wonder if it is because I have done such atrocities. Is this karma or coincidence? Either way, there is no escape from it. A lonely bed greets me every night. It is silent and still in my residence.
It is true: You should never have to bury your own children.
They shouldn't of suffered because of my mistakes.
I mourn for them. I have for the past several years. At first, I knew it was a normal response. As time went on, I suspected..something else. I was not eating on a consistant basis. I had trouble focusing (or being distracted from the pain, depending on how you look at it). I found myself unable to function as I normally did. I couldn't even train anymore. I let my pride crumble away until I eradicated it by seeking outside help.
"I want to kill myself." I told a doctor, some several years ago.
"Why?" he'd asked.
"Because I don't want to fucking live." I said.
I don't like doctors, much less ones that analyze your life and try to convince you that things can, and will, get better.
Needless to say, I was deemed a threat to myself. I was put into a half-way house sort-of-thing. I live with other people who may or may not be suicidal. Most of them move in and out pretty quick, but I am a resident now, not just a guest.
There's a lady on the first floor called Mrs. Tarintino. She's sort of like the land lord, and she has to check up on me. If I don't come home by curfew, she has to call the police. When I eventually come home, she scolds me before making me hot cocoa and shipping me off to bed. Never, in my whole life, has anyone treated me in such a way. I pity her, because she cares about me.
Due to this fact (that she cares for me), I have given her a few good scares. The first time I tried to kill myself, I threw my body over the sixth floor balconey. My room is 603, and I decided that trying to end my life sounded a lot better than moping around all night like an insomniac. I landed directly on my head, where I proceed to cry because I had managed to somehow not be deceased. At this point, and until this day, I have no pride to interfere with my physical expression of inner pain. I let myself cry because it barely fends off more intense negative feelings. Mrs. Tarintino took me to the hospital where they found no injuries.
Later, I attempted to overdose on over-the-counter medication. I went to the nearest pharmacy and bought several boxes of Tylenol® and NyQuil® and proceeded to down them all at once. What resulted was the biggest vomit fest I'd ever endured. My body outright rejected the overdose and refused to digest it, choosing instead to expel it all in a massive torrent of what I can only describe as extreme nastiness. Mrs. Tarintino felt bad for me, and helped clean everything up. She's a brave, old lady for enduring that kind of mess.
I even tried to hang myself. Mrs. Tarintino screamed when she came into my room and found me with my feet dangling in midair. I assured her that I was still alive by saying, "Don't worry, nothing's happened for four hours, so I doubt I'll stop breathing any time soon."
She thinks it's a miracle and a blessing that I haven't died yet. I think it's a curse. What good am I if I can't even kill myself?
I tried to explain this to my various therapists, but they don't seem to understand. I lost my family due to my own stupidity, how am I supposed to just move on from this?
One lady suggested that every time I start getting suicidal thoughts, that I should do something that makes me happy. I tried this approach, with little success. Firstly, I tried training, but it reminded me too much of all the fights I've lost, particularly this last one. I tried to do the things I enjoyed with my wife and/or kids, but it always reminded me of them. I tried making friends, but I'm too honest and my life is too unbelieveable for them. Most people think I made up my history to counter for my tremendous loss. I wish I had. I wish it was that easy.
The only thing that seemed to work was self-gratification. I can force myself to focus on this one simple task, and if I do it enough, it wears me out. Sleep is also one of the few times I am not tormented. I have difficulty deciding which is better: the bliss of unconsciousness or the bliss of an orgasm. Sometimes my wife haunts me, because the self-induced pleasure will remind me of the pleasure she had given me. Sometimes, I'm haunted in my dreams, by any number of things. It's difficult to say which is worse.
I have no hobbies. Most of the time I sit around thinking, but following what that lady - Dr. Reilly - suggested, I end up masturbating on a consistant basis. Thinking makes me depressed, and the more I think, the more depressed I become, hence my dilemma. I couldn't even consider having sex with anyone else, as it would dishonor the memory of my wife. I know she is waiting for me.
So this leaves me in an awkward stage. I cannot kill myself to join the ones I love, and I cannot find any enjoyment in my life.
My life is shit.