I know I’m not the worst person on the planet, heck I’m not the worst person in the city I live in, possibly not even the worst person in my apartment complex, but I feel like I am. I hate to be another whiney over sharing punk that my friends and family keep forgiving or forgetting about, but I am. Even if that’s okay, I don’t feel okay about it. My Dad has decided I’m the bad guy, that I’m this emotionally manipulative monster who only wants and mooches and grabs at things while wasting away any good in myself, and sometimes I believe him. He raised me, at least he had a hand in it, he might know.
I feel like all my friends are gone either by obligation, distance, or something else that makes me a non-priority, and I miss the kid me that didn’t care about that. The kid that could watch TV all day and drink Dr. Pepper and worry about Superman Vs. Batman without being shunned by anyone because he didn’t have anyone to ignore him. What I’m saying here is I think I’m on a ledge and jumping only looks better as it goes. I don’t have my rent for this or next month, and despite my best efforts, I don’t think I will. I’m useless in so many ways lately. My car won’t start and my little sister won’t or can’t answer my calls while every time talks to my Mom or Grandparents I feel like I’m picking a side.
So, I take it out on my friends and can’t sleep right and worry about all this stuff that keeps me from writing what I want to write, and I don’t know when to shut up, but here I am. I’m scared that I might kill myself, I really don’t want to, and despite some cases of popular opinion, I think few do. God, I just want to sit in a corner and write and not worry about all these other people and jobs and rent and family values and education. I swear if anyone asks me about my education again, I’ll scream, but I can’t scream right anymore because I’m losing my teeth and it hurts. It all hurts so much, and I just want it to stop. I can’t misquote Hemingway sit at a typewriter and bleed. I can’t e this struggling writer, I’m just the regular kind, struggling doesn’t inspire me, or maybe it does, and I just don’t want it too? Perhaps it’s all my fault and no one else, maybe I have been manipulated, maybe none of this matters and I don’t matter, and the world will be better off without me, and I know what they’ll say, “Don’t do it, Kade, it’s not you who’ll get hurt. It’s those that remain.” Which just makes me think they’re worried about themselves getting hurt, but I don’t know.
I’m afraid my Dad will kidnap my little sister and change her name and tell her all this terrible half-truths and full-lies about me. That I don’t love her or care, but I do. I’m worried my Dad will hurt her if she ever wants to leave or if she does leave kill himself and I don’t want that. I love him, and our brains work in such similar ways.
“Paranoias in our blood,” he wrote to me in an e-mail before I blocked him. Sure that’s a little out of context, but I don’t know what he meant by it, I don’t know anything, I don’t think I’m allowed too. Is it guilt keeping me up? Or shame or something equally terrible? How do I solve this, or can this be solved? Do I keep praying or do run away or face it head on even though I have no idea what I’m facing or if there’s anything there. You, reading this, can you help me? Can you tell me what to do? Or am I right in assuming nobody reads these… Well, I guess I read them while I’m writing them, think that makes me nobody. That was my internet tag name for a while, got it from Greek mythology. Also thought it helped when you are talking to someone about something you care about, and they say, “Nobody cares.” So, if I’m nobody, I care. I wonder, if I’m ever famous, which I doubt, will people look at this and talk about it? Will they care? Will anybody or just the nobodies? Well, thanks for reading Nobody, I appreciate it. Hope you have a better day tomorrow and a better one after that.
– Kade-Mica David Battles