Twenty-Six

I’ve been doing this for eleven years.

I know this. I have a folder for every time a new term in my life started.

But I’m getting tired. Tired of everything.

My English teacher told me never to start a sentence with “but”, but here I am. A self-described writer. I haven’t written anything in over a year. The last thing I did was a half-baked idea with a quarter-baked execution.

I am still tired, and lonely, and sad, and broke. Let’s break it down.

I’m about to turn twenty-six. I still live with my parents. I hate it here. I feel like I as a person am not growing. I try my darndest to be better, every single day I try to be better, but I can’t get it right.

Everything feels so exhausting. Living is exhausting and exhaustive. I feel like I haven’t had a proper break in ages.

I semi have a girlfriend now. I’m pretty sure that she considers me her partner. Her life is rife with hardships, abuse, and tragedy. I sure know how to pick them. This is exhausting. Not knowing is exhausting. Leading her around is exhausting. Not knowing what I want is exhausting. In a similar but opposing tone, I do know what I want, and it is not her.

I can’t date right now. I don’t want to see anyone right now. I don’t want to be seen right now. I tell everyone that either life gets better or that we do, and I’m not sure that I believe it myself anymore. I am a fraud and a hypocrite. My life experiences are piecemeal composed of inspired writers to an uninspired idiot. It all makes sense; I just can’t do it.

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So many things I can expand on, but I’m not in the right mind-space to do it. My words are erratic, sporadically sane, but often vague and meaningless. I’m tired of not achieving anything. I’m tired of things not making sense. I’m upset that I can’t drink anymore, and that I need to find a better coping mechanism to handle life. I would love to take a few days off from work, but I am severely in debt and will not be able to handle my thoughts if I had to be alone with them in the future. Short-term I am fucked. Long-term I am fucked too, and we will see why in a moment.

Even if I took leave from office, I wouldn’t be able to afford to do anything. All of this is tiring. And I wish I had a better word to describe it, but that is the only emotion I can make any sense of.

Hatred. Self-pity. Self-loathing. An insatiable need to be loved and remembered. A part of a machine that doesn’t care, and no clear way of accepting that. Being more of an idea than a person. Or better yet, more of an idea than a mere bundle of facts strewn together that form a jumbled mess of a person, barely able to self-sustain, less the desire to sustain suspends, and all we are left with is the half-completed Version 11 and no satisfying conclusion to a tragic and easily circumvented fate.

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I am going to kill myself.

I do not know when just yet. A friend asked that I attend their funeral, which will be in 2027, so I have at least until then to out what this fickle walkway is about.

Until then, I am dealing with the Big Sad, and the big C, but worse.

I hide my angst under a clearly unclever façade of facetiousness. If I’m laughing, the need to cry disappears, even momentarily.

I realize more and more that I do not consider myself to be alive, and rather only living. Day-to-day. To ensure that I can look after myself, and my parents, and my grandparents.

That has always been the dream, but not the goal. The goal is happiness. A silly word for a genuinely calming and neutral feeling. The goal has always been Germany, ever since I had one conversation with a German broad twelve years ago.

Today I told a friend that I refuse to acknowledge any memory prior to ending high school. I do not resonate with that person anymore. He is not me. Similarly, I am not me.

I do not know what I am at the moment. I’m just trying to make it to tomorrow’s tomorrow.

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My middle name is gifted from my grandfather’s. He is sick.

A trip to the US was cut short because he needed better care than what his travel insurance would allow.

I sincerely hope that he ends up fine. I have never loved a family member more than I do him. I see a lot of myself in him, and I hope to see more as I mature further.

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So much to write still. So much time. So little motivation and discipline. Just a little easier. Please. Just a little.

[redacted]

This interesting story will be expanded on in the next entry to my blog, be it tomorrow, next week, or the next year.

I still have at least four more years left.

Pray for me. I have already started.

Please help.

Please.

-Charlton 7 February 2023