The Listener and the Learner

October 27th, 2017

Dear Diary,

This is stupid. 

I don’t mean any offense to you or the thousands of people who do this, I’m sure it’s cathartic for them. But it won’t be for me, I swear that to you right now, even if my therapist says so.

Why would I even tell you things? It seems like I’m just setting myself up for blackmail. I mean, I’m the only one who’ll ever read this, at least functionally, right? I already know this stuff. Anything I write here in ink has already been written in my past with blood. I am those memories. So what’s the point?

I say this, but I know the point. It’s to release emotion, to vent your anger or frustration with the world. Sometimes, it takes writing things down to logically process your thoughts. Writing is a distraction, a relief, from all the evil thoughts that seek to consume you and drag you into the utter depths of hell. Writing is transferring your demons onto the page, imprisoning them within that cage of word and wit, allowing you to turn your back on them in peace. Without fear. Without the fear that’s been part of your life for so long. I want this, more desperately than one could imagine. I cry myself to sleep some nights, most nights, begging for peace from that pain. They say writing will help, and it very well may, but then why am I so afraid to do it? 

Is it because of the commitment? Having to pen something, to drown my sorrows in letters rather than other, more elaborate, substances every time I get the urge? Perhaps it’s the concept of caring, of putting effort into my rehabilitation. Of admitting I’m worth something.

Sorry, Diary. These are, admittedly, extremely somber thoughts. I’m not usually this way, I promise, at least not to other people. They see me as simply a happy optimistic buffoon, ignorant of the suffering around him. They don’t think I understand pain. Little do they know I understand it very well. 

Don’t get me wrong, journal of mine, I am optimistic. I can smile, and I enjoy the puns and extremely corny jokes I sling around. That isn’t fake, it’s just not entirely me. There’s a difference between two-faced and two-faceted, and I don’t think most people grasp that concept. Everybody sees everyone else as plain, one-dimensional figures. I mean, I do it as well sometimes, despite my best efforts. It’s human.

 Just--don’t think of me as a liar. I’m not. I simply know what side of me people like best, and I try to give them what they want. Though that seems similar, it’s hardly the same thing. Not the same thing at all. So people see what they want to see, a happy-go-lucky individual whose eyes twinkle like the brightest of stars and whose grin rivals the Sun’s rays. And they don’t look any deeper. Nobody knows who I am.

Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why I’m writing here, despite the difficulty. So that someone--something, even--can understand who I am. And perhaps, through the process, I can understand myself a bit better as well.

No more hiding then. Blackmail be damned, commitment be damned, I will be straight up with you. You know my name (it’s written on the front cover after all), and you know what I’ve told you. You may have guessed, from my reference to my therapist earlier, that I’ve been suffering from depression for a bit. What you may not know is that it has indeed gotten worse.

People always tell you, “time heals all wounds”. That everything will turn out okay. But it’s been getting worse for quite a while. Whatever kind of healer time may be, it’s not an effective one.

How many times have I sat on that bedroom floor, rocking back and forth, trying desperately to weather the storm and fight the urge? How many times have I gone to war with myself, struggling against my own mind to get out of bed? How many times have I found myself in the midst of a stormy sea, with the voices clutching at my legs, dragging me down . . . 

and down . . .

and down.     

How many times?

That’s why I went to see the therapist in the first place, to get better. I’ve only had two sessions, the first one being an introductory sort of meeting, and the second more about coping mechanisms (hence the journal), but nothing’s changed. It sounds absurd, I know that, but I had hoped that the pain would ease the moment I met with one. Not extremely, mind you, just slightly. I expected to feel some sort of progress, yet it hasn’t happened.

It’s just so damn terrible.

You ever seen a building on fire? You’re inanimate obviously, so you haven’t, but just bear with me. Imagine being in the building, no, imagine living in that building. The dancing flames, the suffocating heat, your sweat filling your shoes. Everything is burning, everything is wrong, and you just wanna stop because nothing’s working anymore. You can’t leave, you can’t escape, and so you’re stuck, watching as everything burns to ashes, wanting to burn with them and escape the torture.

I wish I could pinpoint the problem, ya know? But the problem is that there’s often no problem. You find reasons, of course, you tell yourself it’s all the stress that work or school has put on you or a feud you’ve been having with your friend. Then the problem, the thing you knew for certain was the issue, goes away, and everything is still burning. You’re still stuck. And so the cycle continues. 

Personally, I’m circling the drain. Round and round and round I go, closer to that deep, dark abyss in the center. No matter how hard I try, no matter how much I struggle and scramble and twist and turn, I’m going down that drain. Finding that therapist--a last-ditch effort. If it doesn’t work out soon, and I don’t think it will, then this won’t just be my first journal entry.

It’ll also be my last.

I’m sorry, I know, it’s morbid and depressing and all that, but that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? To listen? Maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s why so many choose to write in you: they just want somebody to listen.

So I don’t know. I frankly can’t do it anymore, all this pretending, all this effort, all this fighting. It’s just too much. Too, too much. I want everything to melt away, I want peace. And if life can’t give it to me, maybe death will.

That’s what it stands for, right? RIP? Rest in peace. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. People won’t get it, of course. I can’t explain it to them. They see it as an unjustifiable action, deranged. To me, it’s a quickening in the circle of life, nothing more or less. My death would be nothing important. 

My death, in all seriousness, would be nothing at all.

So, um, goodbye. 

It hasn’t been long, but I feel like you know me more than most. You may be a couple of pages barely bound together, but you’re also a friend. Goodbye, dear diary. Perhaps goodbye for good.

Thank you for listening.

April 5th, 2020 

Dear Diary,

Wow. It’s been what, three years? A bit shorter, but I think that’s about right. I only made one entry in this thing, a long time ago, which just goes to show you how good I am at commitment (I told you!). It’s odd though, looking back at all this. The person who wrote these words is me but not me, both a good friend and a stranger. I almost forgot that I had written this. Not that I had felt this way, dear God no, but that I had taken to this diary to vent my feelings. I suppose it’s just mere happenstance that I found this today. Who would’ve thought?

It’s both a shock and a comfort to see these pages again. To confront, to distinctly remember, how close I had actually been to doing this unalterable act. The spastic handwriting, the desperate phrases, the sheer hopelessness--it brings me back to unpleasant times. 

However, I’m still glad to pick these up and read them. It’s a demonstration to me how far I’ve truly come. There are still difficult days of course, and I still have further to go (I think I always will), but I’ve made progress. Things really do get better. I am, without a doubt, happy, and that’s much more than I ever was before.

Time doesn’t heal any wounds, it instead gives you the chance to heal them yourself. Either way, I suspect I’ll be writing in this a lot more from now on.

See you tomorrow.