I only write while I am on drugs.
I only think about myself, while I am on drugs.
Otherwise, I distract myself. I want to escape. I am in panic mode and I can’t even tell. It is a Sunday. I went to a party yesterday. I had fun at that party. Somehow I don’t feel connected to the people, but that’s the way it is. Things seem a tad unreal. My life seems unreal.
But now it is Sunday and I can not relax. So many judgemental thoughts in my head. I should be preparing the case for a class. But that is only due tomorrow. Presentation at work. Due on Tuesday? There is so much to do and I pretend that there is not? I’m a bit lost at work and do play pretend a lot. I don’t want any of this.
I’m not even doing it for a family. Biology sucks. I don’t understand it, I am not interested in it. On the one hand, I want to be all intellectual, on the other, as crude as possible. So self-indulged. Fuck the other people. I will feel bad for them, but fuck them. Hendrick Williams* and his family? Fuck. them. The kind of letter you are afraid to write because “they are watching”.
I don’t act like a professional. I pretend like my time is not valuable. I pretend like people don’t listen to me. I pretend that I have no authority. I am managing eleven people and it feels nice. The more people, the better. Do I care for my people? Yes. Are they a means to an end? Yes. Unclear if I’m acting tough here or if I actually mean it. I didn’t fire Samuel*. I could have, but it would have cost me the opportunity to virtue signal. And I deferred to my boss’ boss for the decision..
All this work shit… It has been most of my life. And now I stand here with nothing. “Nothing”. No family, no woman, no house. I am going to have a great degree. I am in a good position right now. But I am distracted. I only want to fuck. I am lonely. Depressed.
I love those little girls. I love how they call me daddy, make me feel powerful and needed. Like I matter. And I don’t like letting them down. But daddy takes advantage of them and that is fucked up. Those girls are just as fucked up as I think I am.
God, how I despise myself. This weird fucking loner, fucking young, impressionable girls, because women my age know the bullshit already. No family. Just smart words. Depressed. Sad. Crybaby. Other men my age have better careers, whine less.
Have I overcome? What the fuck have I overcome? I came up in a privileged household. That is what they told me: that we had money. It doesn’t make any fucking sense. My grandfather was a subsistence farmer that worked for the government? The other one was a bricklayer that got killed by alcohol. They did own their land though. Both of them.
My mind is so impatient, judgemental. Like my father.
I feel like nothing. Compared to my friends, I am doing well, I think. Well, one has a flat because of his mom. The other is a teacher. Richard* is working for a bank. Out of those, I only respect Richard* because he has a family. He is the only one that counts.
I’m not sure if we were ever really that close, I hope we were. I trust him with my life. He had all the friends, and I was this awkward kid from the country-side. We were from different social classes. I didn’t know, or maybe I did, and I felt inadequate. All those kids seemed to know what was going on and I did not. They were all playing a game I was not in on. It still feels the same way to me. I guess I got angry. And depressed. And everything. They were all smarter than me. Or maybe they actually weren’t but they were educated enough to mask that.
My schools sucked. Somehow I missed the point too. Richard* had girlfriends. I never did. Not one. I thought I was too pathetic back then too. That no-one could want me. I did have low self esteem. Like, really low. I’d have done anything for approval. And then it didn’t come and I became a rebel or something?
I never wanted to rebel, I just wanted to be fucking seen. Here I was, untapped. Apparently there was more than enough energy to get us in trouble, “hack” computers, do all kinds of other stuff, but not enough to actually challenge us and let us do real things. Just keep us busy. I never got a real education. I just don’t know Biology: no-one has taught me. I faintly remember classes, but how I passed the tests, I don’t know. My teacher knew “us boys”, she must have given us free grades. For a “bright child”, I was never good in school. They said I “could be”, but I never was. The last time I got good grades was in elementary school.
No-one taught me how to learn. Was anyone learning with me? Needing help meant you were stupid. We did “Vokabellernen” and memorized the capitals of Europe. I wanted to learn programming, but I was too dumb. Didn’t understand what a variable was. I think I am pretty unremarkable. I like words. I liked reading as a child. It made sense.
School. Drinking. Alcohol poisoning. Not fitting in. Switching schools. City to country to city. It sucked. It sucked so bad. I was so alone. And then my sister was born and no-one was there for me. They just dropped me. I had to do so much.
Bad grades, bad grades. Showing off to other parents. Parade, parade. Smart, smart. Lonely. So lonely. Hurt. Do this. Do that. Reward. Good boy. If not good, mean. Mean.
We don’t talk about my teenage years? I need to talk to my sister. Really talk and listen to her. I lost so many friends. I want to say that I never had them, but I don’t think that is true. I was in the role playing group and I had found “other friends”. The “other friends” were all losers. The drinkers, the anti-socials. I could finally fit in by drinking and being funny. Just by being there. They judged me too. Somehow my dad was “too rich”. And I was his son, riding the big cars. Jealousy. Instead of being grateful for having had a seat in the car. That hurt. I was always spending heavily. Generous, like Andrea* said. I just hoped that people would like me.
Liked. I don’t like myself. I hate myself. I hate this weak, pathetic, lonely, middle aged, piece of shit. If I’d talk like this, even towards my worst enemy, I would check myself. But for me, I have no compassion. I deserve no compassion. I am irredeemable. I am proud. I will do this my way. And if I need to die alone, I will fucking do so. I want you to reject me, so I can be by myself. What the fuck do I want from those people? What do I want from Seth*? Troy*? Approval?
My father built a family, founded a business, and raised two kids. I have nothing. I am one of those kids. For some reason my parents are proud of me, but I am so disappointed. I was supposed to be so much more. But in reality I was nothing. I wasn’t driven either. I just wanted two fucking healthy parents. I remember those vacations. The pictures. I don’t know how it really was.
So much pressure. They pressured me to be so much. They nearly lost their son.
It is hard to see myself in a context, as an outcome. They wanted me to be so much and I just could not. It broke me. To this day, I just can not rest. Rest is not good enough. Too much for a child. Driven. I wanted to. Angry. I wanted to. And she laughed.
Nearly a decade in the US. 2017. 2026. Nine years. I came as a broken man. Now I am a broken man. Well, I did have a girlfriend before and now I don’t. Did I work on myself? I don’t know.
I couldn’t hold a job when I was younger. All the jobs were given by friends of the family. Odd jobs. And I stole. And I didn’t show up. Then my first real job. And then I lost it after not even three years. And before that? I thought I was doing well, but in reality I was not. I knew I was better than everyone else, but I sucked. I had barely made it through high school (with the exams we had stolen), and then bombed university. And then I was doing nothing for two or three years? I pretended to go to university, but I never went there. I didn’t know how to tell my parents, but I was too afraid to go to class. I ate pizza, drank beer and played World of Warcraft. I don’t think I had fun doing that. Or maybe I did. I also wanted to get a better body at that time but didn’t know how. Lifting might have started then. And going to parties. I think I was fun at parties. When I didn’t puke somewhere or blackout, which was often. I thought the drinking is what made me fun, but it is what made me unfun. I wasn’t drinking “for fun”. I was drinking because I felt my life depended on it. That was the one thing I am good at. I wasn’t very good at it. Always the clown. Always someone to be laughed at.
I wanted to be taken seriously. No-one would. Not my parents, not anyone. I was just “Jim*”. Somehow an entity by itself. And I still don’t think people take me seriously. And they tremble. When I speak, people take note. And I throw it away. Because I think that they don’t take me seriously.
Those moments of writing will need to become more regular. I am being washed away. My personality has become a job. There was a phase in my teenage years where I wanted to become a writer. Maybe not become a writer, but to learn more about words. My family did not understand “words”. Too intellectual. And I never wrote. Tried once. Too dark, too self-indulgent.
If I’d publish this as a blog, I better not put my name on it. How deranged.