six weeks or so ago, i wrote a post called fifty reasons to live. i reread it a lot, especially when i’m sad and lost and lonely and tired and… like today. today was not a good day. nothing happened to make it bad. nothing has to. that’s why it’s bad. because… nothing. i feel like a nothing. i’ve accomplished nothing. and i’ve no desire to do anything. i have more days like today than not. this is what depression looks like for me. fifty reasons to want it over. done. the end. this is the bullshit i battle in my brain on what seems to be a daily basis. the good news is, this time it was a helluva lot harder to come up with the fifty.
one. because they said you couldn’t.
two. because they said you shouldn’t.
three. because they said you wouldn’t.
four. because you crawl into an empty bed. every. night. in your parents’ house because you can’t afford your own.
five. cupcakes. sure. because you need another five pounds on your ass. go ahead. eat.
six. you think you have friends. hahahah. no, you don’t. how many of them actually give a shit about you? isn’t that why you spend so much time at pappadeaux’s? you’re not writing. you’ve not written anything in weeks. you just sit there, running your mouth, wasting your money and annoying the servers.
seven. the scars. those doctors, they’ve made you so pretty.
eight. not that you were pretty in the beginning. and all you did was cry. all the damned time.
nine. yeah. daddy. you treat him like crap. and it’s always take… take… take.
ten. and mama. you think your mother’s a saint. and she is for putting up with you all these years. you’re a spawn. a spore. you’re nothing like her. you’re no lady. you’ve no class. no grace. you’re too selfish and bitchy and needy…
eleven. films. that’s all you ever wanna do. watch movies. you’d spend the rest of your pathetic life in bed, watching movies. because you’re too afraid to live. you’ll never write a story so good someone will feel compelled to show it on a screen.
twelve. there’s those things your peers… those people who can manage to make friends and live good lives… they said things like this: you should go kill yourself because the world would be better off without you in it. you should’ve listened.
thirteen. poetry? everything you write is crap. no one’s ever gonna wanna read it. your poems are too prosaic. remember? your creative writing professor told you that.
fourteen. star wars sheets. what? are you twelve? geek.
fifteen. pappadeaux’s. amy’s right, you know. they’re only nice to you because they have to be.
sixteen. literature. if you’re not watching a movie, you’re reading a book. because being stuck in your life is such a hell. and the only way you know to escape it is to get lost in some stupid story.
seventeen. you’re taking up valuable air and space, and there are more important people who need it.
eighteen. minn was only nice to you because she felt sorry for you.
twenty. and bambam… they’re getting older. wiser. they won’t love you quite so easily when they see who you really are. you’ll hurt them.
twenty-one. you quit smoking? why the hell did you bother with that? you want a short life, right? doesn’t quitting just make it last longer?
two. your teachers… how many of them hated teaching you? i bet it was a lot.
six. like school did you any good anyway. all that money your grandmother and great aunt left you, so you could have a fine education. and you squandered it.
seven. you’re so fat. it’s so disgusting. lazy bitch.
eight. and your teeth. gross.
nine. your face, though. that’s the worst. no amount of make-up will make that thing pretty. it won’t matter how many times you stare in the mirror and how many different ways. that glass is gonna show the same cross-eyed, freckled, scarred shit.
thirty. everything bugs you. remember? your brother’s friend the other day started rattling off a list. he only stopped because you interrupted him.
thirty-one. every night… just so you can sleep, you’ve gotta pop some pills. there’s so much ugliness in you the only way you can silence it is to drug it. how sad.
two. and then there’re the things you’d overheard: i’m only nice to her because she gives me gum.
three. you like giving things to people don’t you? makes you feel better about yourself? they’re just things. and you’re trying to buy affection. just like when you were a kid.
four. phineas. how many cars is that now? six cars you’ve wrecked. and you love that car? sure looks it, what with all the scrapes on the exterior, the gashes in the seat, the patches in the carpet… yeah. you love that car. i can tell.
five. your own brother doesn’t even wanna spend time with you. but that’s okay. you don’t much wanna spend time with him, either.
six. you’re too much like a boy. don’t even know how to be a girl, do you?
seven. but that’s okay. the boys don’t want to get their hands on you anymore. not that they ever really did. you were just convenient. and lonely. and easy. or so they thought.
eight. but you can’t even do that right, can you? so eager to play. til you get to a certain point. and then you balk. and walk. every time.
nine. when’s the last time you did something good–really good–for anyone?
forty. you talk too much. no one wants to hear the words coming out of your mouth. no one cares.
forty-one. you’ve been at that job of yours for almost four years. how many people have been hired and promoted since then? some of those gals got promoted to management in six months’ time. and look at you. still struggling. how long do you think they’re gonna let you do that? move up, or move out, jenny. pretty soon, it’s gonna be out.
two. and look at you. you’ve never held a job for more than four years. ever. that’s pretty pathetic.
three. no one wants you here. not really.
four. god knows your parents would be better off. they could actually enjoy retirement instead of having to support their stupid, lazy daughter.
five. no one will ever wanna marry you because you’re too ugly, and no one wants to wake up next to something that ugly every morning.
six. laughter. really? have you forgotten how often, how loudly and how gleefully they laughed at you?
seven. no one gives a shit about any stories you have to tell.
eight. if you die? because you call this living? they’ve already won, silly girl. they won a long time ago.
nine. your brother can’t because he was weak. you’re just like him. in all the wrong ways.
fifty. that promise? you signed a piece of paper twenty years ago. that doctor who made you sign it? he’s probably forgotten all about you. so many will…
so… there. i took my benadryl. i’ll brush my teeth and crawl in bed, and read or watch a movie until i can’t stay awake anymore. and to counter all this ugliness, there’s number fourteen from that happier list: