Nothing Doing

"I'm not weak am I?"

I was debating whether or not I should ask while we drove around silently. I didn't like being the passenger of a car being driven by someone who wasn't very happy with me at the moment--someone whom I had recently let down, someone who I should've done better by. We had started driving some forty minutes ago, and after rambling for a while we just fell into silence as the car hummed along the highway. I pondered whether or not I'd start crying. I felt awful. I felt like I had been gutted then left to die on a street in an abandoned city. But I didn't feel emotional--there wasn't anything to push me into tears. I could've attempted it anyway, but it wouldn't have been easy. Maybe I was dehydrated. I took my eyes off the road and pulled down the visor and stuck my tongue out. It looked pretty pale underneath the flourescent lights guarding the highway. The driver looked at me. I didn't look back at her.

I know you're angry at me. Listen--I wish I made better choices too. I'd like to say it's partly you're fault. Not that you'll accept blame. It's hard to accept you're not perfect; you're given one life and it's like you fuck up every fifteen minutes. Just don't make the same mistake twice, they say, but you'll always make similar mistakes for the rest of your life because you're just a little crazy and everybody knows it. Or they would know it, if they knew you. But no one cares about you. No one cares about me. Because everyone has their own little problems that slowly gnaw them away to either acceptable madness or past that and then they die, kill themselves or put themselves in situations they can't survive. Okay, but enough philosophy.

I wish I made better choices. I don't know why you made me think that you can find happiness in other people. You can't. When you can individually overcome the things in yourself and in life that bother you most, that's when you'll be happy. But that's hard to do. Look at me. My life hasn't even been that hard. Do I wish I had been loved more as a child? Yes. Do I think it's odd that every four or five years, starting at age 8, I find myself in these moods that can't be calmed by logic or counseling? That I go out and do crazy, crazy shit to try and compensate for these impulsive feelings that keep pushing against my brainstem, controlling me as I could never control myself.

It's death. You know that. I'm scared. And I still have a long time left. But it's the waiting I can't stand. I think that's what drives those moods. When nothings doing for a while and you realize that you can't count on anyone to care about you, that your life is so dull as dishwasher unmemorable, that you might as well end it. What do I dream about? I dream about adventures. I dream about doing things. I dream about saving lives. I dream about falling in love. Then I wake up. And it's this monotone existence that makes me speed on a crowded highway, sled down high inclined, tree covered hills, and lie in bed all day. When you cry when you wake up in the morning because you realize that you're waking into reality, that's when you know it's time.

But that's entirely not the point. We didn't start driving so we could talk about the extreme. I won't ever kill myself--intentionally. I know I could eat better, I could take better care of my health, I could actually exercise for once. Decision making. And I suck at it. I know. I'm sorry. Maybe if I had chosen a better friend... No. Let's not go there.

I love you okay? I want you to love me too-but unconditionally. And I want us to go on adventures. And I want to be happy. For once. Please. Help.

"Can we go home now?"

I got off at the next exit, turned on the radio. I didn't know what my preset station 4 was playing, but I was too comatose to change it. In the dark this place kind of felt like home. I got back on the highway going north. Tears started forming on the surface of my eyes. I didn't care. The road was empty. So was my car.