Creative Writing With The Same Thoughts

50

The day I reached 50 was the day I decided waiting for the rot of my bones was suicide. I began my journey of constant pessimistic thinking back when I was a kid of 13. I would teleport through time constantly, eventually to my last breath. This used to horrify me, because in the end the only thing I saw was a microwave clock and the sense of persistent yet painful living, in death. I spent those days on a mattress on the floor, unable to move, unable to stop thinking. I knew I wouldn't enjoy the days I could see, move around, or do if I was unable to stop the thinking. I got sick from never moving, I got exhausted from only being awake at night with the fan on. The thought of having an active brain like this forever was my deepest and darkest form of torment. The thoughts wouldn't leave quite so easy, but I began to try and do more, then came the deep depression that would also be lifelong. I hated every kid I ever met, because they knew nothing about agony and they cared not about mine. I saw from every point of view my life falling apart, somehow caving in from the nothing that I made, because God gave me no chance in hell. If I could take a chance on death I might escape the thoughts as much as the feelings, but my family encouraged me to wait with tears in their eyes, so I did. Every moment was a struggle to bring my head out of the choker or the knife away from my neck. Though, I somehow powered through. 

Life went on, with every hope I had about life and the future being torn away. I tried countless medications, even more therapy, and numerous alternative solutions. I started to wonder if what they were treating was unable to be treated, or if they were merely wrong about my diagnosis. Maybe I needed things in my life I never had. Every time I went out and tried though, well it ended as poorly as it ever could. Friends who never were interested, girls who wouldnt so much as look at me, men who decided I was the worst kind of person, booze that never patched the hole in my heart. The desolate days of loneliness, accompanied by the worst feelings anyone could have about themselves, stewing and becoming more and more apparent. My family, who for the most part wasnt there, would have just loved to see me live this empty kind of life, the life they expected for a boy with as many problems as I. I gave them my years of being around, they gave me sorry looks and pathetic back pats. I remember the last time I ran away from home, when I was still a child, how stupid was it for me to believe that any of that would solve my problems? When they say you can't run from your problems, you try to show yourself that you can. But you should know, the opinion I have made of myself, was never going to change. 

50 isn't as old as it could be, but my body gave out decades ago. If my rib cage showed when I was young, my innards show now. I used to go through the cycles of overeating and not touching a scrap at all, now there's no reason for me to eat, and I'm far too sick to even try. I could have been in a lot better shape by now, but nothing made it feel like the right thing to do. I was so caught up believing I would have died already, I never saw myself making it nearly this far. I'm stuck in this vessel, stuck in my ways, stuck in general. All the complaining that I do, is even too much for me. Nothing I say is new, nothing has changed. The hope for anything to happen except death is nonexistent. I have wasted my life, though I could never have done anything different in a thousand years. I search for meaning in my life, through words or what have you. I want to believe this happened for a reason, but I cant think of one.