Every day i have to awake and wonder why i should continue, why i should try to love, why i should go to work or look for another job after being fired or quitting, why i have to throw a motherfucker in it so ignorant niggas could feel me, why i still love my family, why i'm still trying to prove to my family, why i still stick with stupid friends, but more importantly, why do i still want to be a writer, when i'm smart and could be a really great accountant. Let me do your taxes.
And the “why,” there has never been an easy answer, more emotion, something in the soul that had to be realized or protested. My “why” was simple: no one got to decide me but me.
I awoke one morning just over a year ago and I didn’t want to live anymore. I just wanted to stop existing. I didn’t want to go though the mess of suicide: the gun to head, the swallowing of pills, hanging from a rope or cutting my veins. Instead, I just wanted to lie in bed, close my eyes, and never get up again, sleep forever. I didn’t believe in anything or anyone, not even myself, because my life felt like it had no meaning, that I could’ve died that exact moment and my job would’ve just replaced me but I didn’t care because I hated it, my friends would’ve pitied me and used my death for an unprotected one-night stand or another reason to get high or drunk, my family had already given up on me, and I was alone. My life had just become fucking and getting high. I was desperately trying to feel some sense of existence even if it was just flesh. I was in my mid-twenties, and the illusion had unraveled, whatever I thought I would be when I grew up in middle school had unraveled, and I had gotten so numb that I couldn’t get angry anymore, just didn’t want to care, believed it was all bullshit, but lying in the bed trying to disappear I needed to know the “why” and I wasn’t going to move until I figured it out. My soul was on protest.
Hue
The burning monk: “The man sits impassively in the central market square; he has set himself on fire performing a ritual suicide in protest against governmental anti-Buddhist policies. Crowds gathered to protest in
I’m always amazed by that picture of the burning monk. He sat so still, even when the flames have engulfed and begin to chew at his skin like a ravenous wild wolf. He didn’t cry, yell, or changed his mind because he was serious. He knew he was going to die, the point of the protest, but his last act on earth was defiant. He used his life so that he would be remembered, his meaning remembered. He didn’t live for nothing. He believed in something so hardcore he died for it. It gave new meaning to the saying “if you knew it was your last day on earth, what would you do with it?” What do you stand for? When the illusion unravels, and it always does, when the house burns down, when you lose that great job, when they don’t scream your name anymore, when he cheats or beats on you, when you outgrow your friends, when you realize you never going to be what you family wants, when you realize you’re never going to be what you thought you were going to be, when you find out the world sucks and its hard to believe, when you realize not everybody is honest, when you realize you’re going to have to live the rest of your life black, a woman, gay, in a wheelchair, or poor. When the illusion unravels, all that is left is what you stand for, and as I lay in bed that day just wanted to die, all that was left was what I stood for. I had nothing left but my soul. I was going to have to realize I could live with nothing but my values.
My best friend and I were having a conversation about life, every since his mother died he’s been in a stagnated place, all his illusions unraveled, and he was desperately trying to believe in life again. I was telling him about my blog, my upcoming website and trying to find a place for my book signing party. I could feel the tension in his voice, I wanted to believe he was happy for me, but I knew he didn’t really understand why I was still holding on to such a slippery dream. I’d known him since our freshman year in college, since we were seventeen years old, and that’s why he commented that I always needed that attention; that I’d always chased fame and popularity, but he was wrong, I’d never chased fame or money, I chased existence.
In a matter of fact voice, he asked me why it was so damn important to me. He wanted to know why I self published my book and was going through the cruel task of trying to sell it. He wanted to know why I sent my resume to agents. He wanted to know why I started my comic series and tried to sell it in the club. It seemed so pathetic to him. It seemed so desperate. But it was desperate in the sense of a person fighting for his life. He didn’t understand the fight. He didn’t understand, I’d known a meaningless life and I didn’t want to go back there. I wanted to die like that burning monk, so damn defiant to the very last moment that no one got to decide my life but me.
My best friend in the recent years, specifically after his mother died went through some dramatic changes, he ended a relationship and changed the locks, he dropped out of the PhD program, he quit his job and found Christ, cocaine and ecstasy in that order. When he was on his Jesus Christ soapbox, life was supposedly all about serving god, fulfilling one’s higher purpose, but I knew he had no higher purpose, he was empty, had been empty a long time. I feared for him, because I knew that emptiness too damn well, how it swallows a life.
another long rant: “I had spent the first 25 years of my life proving that I was good enough, graduating grade school, taking tests, getting into college, taking more tests, getting good, trying to be the smart boy the system decided I was, going to church, hiding my secrets from my family so they would still think I was a good boy, getting the good job in the big city, proving to my boss I was loyal, overcompensating, trying to be the best love, trying to be the best friend, and all that time I thought they were going to find out, the world was going to find out that I wasn’t good enough, that I was a fraud, that I was pretending to be liked, that deep down I wasn’t a good person, I was selfish, flawed, vain, that I didn’t like anything or anyone, that I was pretending to be smart, that I was pretending to be attractive, when I knew I was ugly, that all I wanted to do was feel good because life was a joyless burden of responsibility and bills and friends borrowing money and all I wanted to do was feel good, have great sex, do great drugs, get drunk and just sit in front of the television, but ironically it was the same selfishness and vanity that refused me to die without drama. I couldn’t just stop existing, and for the first time in my life I could feel anger, I wanted my boss to know how much I hated her, I wanted my family to know I wasn’t perfect, I was so damn flawed, I wanted my lovers to know how much a freak I was, and I wanted my friends to know I wasn’t so agreeable, my entire life had been just about keeping the illusion alive that I forgot anger, my entire life had been keeping the illusion alive, an illusion I didn’t even create but given it to me, why was I constantly trying to be the nice guy when I knew deep down I was an asshole, why was I constantly apologizing for shit, I didn’t like sex with my boyfriend so why was I still faking it, why was I still faking it, why was I still faking it, and I hated myself for faking, knew I was going to die a fraud, so what if my sister found out I liked to get high and drink and go to bathhouse, so what if the family found out that I dropped out of grad school and didn’t want to be a fucking Lawyer or business man, I wanted to be a writer, I wanted to be broke and tragic and feeling my soul and not buying them expensive Christmas gifts so they could love me, so what if my friends found out I like kinky sex, I liked dressing up in leather, who was I faking for and were any of those bitches going to give me an award for pretending, so I stopped. I just fucking stopped. And then I got really fucking scared, could I be as defiant as that burning monk?”
Funny, I never asked my best friend why he chose Christianity, why did he need his soul to be saved or get into heaven. In college I wouldn’t had never guessed he would go the religious route, but I respected it from the beginning, maybe because I knew he needed to believe in something. We were the same.
It’s so hard to believe, have faith, I admire those religious fanatics even though some are murderers, they believe, and one must ask themselves “Why” why do those Jehovah witnesses go door to door, why do Muslims pray five times a day, why are Christians so damn judgmental, why do Jews believe they are the chosen ones, but more importantly why do human-beings go through so much drama to deal with their inevitable death.
the “why” is death, because life is hard, the right now is hard, happiness right now is so damn hard, so the “why” is death, how you would be remembered, if it was a meaningless life, if god will remember you in heaven or will they celebrate you after you long gone, it’s what we choose to leave behind, our argument for existence, that’s the why.
Wow. That was inspired. Also, amazing writing. May I suggest believing in you. We all go through it, but, as hard as it is, you have to fight through, you have to not be afraid to face your own insecurities, and to heal...to not allow yourself to be the victim, but the person. The person who has been hurt, and is still here, the person who is not afraid to hurt, and not afraid to still be here.
I wish you happiness, and joy, and peace.
Keep ya head up
www.buddhanet.net (or some church or something, nothing can make you feel better than some gospel music, holla)
Posted by: ME | February 16, 2006 at 11:33 PM
Dude!
I've never read anything like this. The part about how "life unravels" was like cold water in the face. Wow. I'm a 39 y/o GBM, college educated, everyone's best friend. I'm the "nice guy". I'll be 40 in four months.
About a year ago my illusions of life began to unravel. I left a prestegious job (that I hated). I'm in the process of putting the pieces back together and living my most authentic life. Anyhow, it's good to know that I'm not alone in my struggle.
ANT 06,
P.S. You're a gifted writer (w/ the realness of Alice Walker). Keep up the good work!
Posted by: ANT06 | February 17, 2006 at 07:31 AM