So He Waited

This is a creative post.

Content warning for depression and anxiety.

The clock ticked away on the wall. Tick, tock, tick, tock, a melody of times never ending march forward. A sound that was somehow both loud and quiet, both soothing and annoying.

Sylvester didn’t know if he should be upset that he couldn’t stop listening.

There were so many things he needed to do. There were of course his homework, that consisted of piles and piles of writing and reading. There were his finances, his social life and his extra-curricular activities.

But above all else, and the thing he wished to avoid thinking about the most, there was himself.

To try and solve the problems of his social life felt like trying to solve an equation that was as meaningless as it was hopeless to work through. Every time he felt he was making progress more and more criticisms fluttered his way.

He felt like he walked around with eyes that were too wild and scared for people to care for.

But how to solve this? It would take years. Years that Sylvester felt he didn’t have. Everything felt urgent and loud to him. Every day was a whirlwind of exhausting activity that presented him with new walls and challenges.

What happens if he no longer had the strength to crawl his way through?

No, it was far easier for now to sit and listen to the clocks ticking. At least, for the time being, it was something he did not have to worry about.

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So He Waited

A Disturbing Night

This is a creative post, I think…

Trigger warnings for: Blood, suicidal themes, cutting, and high intensity emotions.

This was written in one go, not checked, I’m half-asleep. But don’t be alarmed, I’m not at risk for self-harm or suicide, I’m perfectly safe. I’m just trying out something… Not new but something I haven’t tried to do in awhile. The whole thing will probably read like an angsty 14 year old wrote it. I haven’t tried to sharpen my writing skills in this kind of area since then so I suppose that’s to be expected.

He was so exhausted.

His core resonated with a dull ache that he couldn’t rationally explain. It made it so hard to breathe, so hard to think…

On the outside his arms and legs felt like they had been set on fire. Little lines of heat where minutes ago he drew himself reminders for his future… If he were to even have a future.

He still wanted more. He wanted it so badly, he wanted to lift the blade up and continue his work. But most of all he wanted to feel as though he could finally stop. All it would take was a little muscle and a lot of strength.

His arm twitched of its own accord, the nerves tickled by the warm trickle of crimson. He became aware of just how much that sensation was starting to manifest on his body.He contemplated getting up to clean himself off but quickly dismissed the thought. What was the point?

So he just lay there, in the silence of his dorm. The world seemed to slumber peacefully around him. A whole life was out there and he was well aware of that. People in different parts of the world were awake and going about their day. He was often in awe at the multitude of individuals in the world. In public he found himself wondering what stories the people around him could tell.

It was deeply ironic that someone who loved life so much craved nothing more than death. He valued almost everybody around him far more than he valued himself. A perpetual people-pleaser who was neither pleasing nor a people person. In his mind, the biggest failure he ever had been was to himself.

He didn’t deserve life. He often felt that his very being was a mere mistake and nothing more. He did not have a place in existence, he simply muscled his way into peoples lives when they made the mistake of letting him in.

The blood and the blade. That was his song, that was his calling. He wasn’t an artist, he wasn’t a thinker, he was hardly a person, but he did have those two things. To describe how he felt when he hurt himself was hard. He often heard others describe it being a release or a relief and he supposed he could agree.

But there was something addictive about the pain itself. The burning sensation that happened when he drew the blade across his skin, knowing by the feel of the pain when he was “successful” in puncturing his skin. The firey, throbbing sensation that followed. The tingling and tickling of his blood that ran when he did it just the right way.

He lived in those moments. But now those moments were gone and he was just laying there, on his dirty floor. He listened to the silence and he thought about all the reasons why he was there.

Maybe somewhere in the very distant future, he could stand to see the sun again.

A Disturbing Night

Writing the Miserable Character

This is a personal post.

Triggers for descriptions of mental illness, notably depression, mentions of suicide and brief mentions blood and sharp objects.

A few days ago a friend said to me, an edge in his voice, “You’re not a cheerful person”. I never bothered asking why he said that, so suddenly and sharply to my agreements that I was a cheerful person who was miserable on the inside. I like to think I know the answer, and hearing it from them would do me no good.

But it got me thinking. It made me think about the fundamental truth of my being, the one that manifested itself years ago and never ceased to be. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not proud of being depressed and that being an obvious aspect of my personality. All I’ve ever wanted to be was a good person. In my mind this meant being cheerful, being open, spreading good vibes where ever I went. My entire dream self is someone people loved because he could love them and, perhaps most of all, love himself.

I’m starting to wonder if I could ever be that man. But most of all I’m starting to wonder if the reason I’m so far from him is because I’m spending so much time trying to be him. I can’t force my depression to go away. I can become better at hiding it sure, which is essentially what I’ve been working towards but… It should be obvious why that’s not an optimal way to live. It’s easy to tell myself “Tomorrow, I will make my friends happy and pretend everything is okay”, but it’s so fucking hard to do that. There’s no point in kidding myself.

I’m a miserable wreck and everybody who knows me knows it.

So, what does this all have to do with writing? Well, if I’m not a cheerful person how can I force myself to write cheerful character? I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come up with a nice, cutsey story idea and failed to write it. It’s not in me, I get a few lines in and I putter out.

I think I’ve been scared to write horror again because something inside of me feels like if I allow myself to, I’ll somehow make everything worse. What person in my life would read the kind of terrible things I’m itching to write and even think to continue befriending me? In these wee hours of the night I listen to stuff like Linkin Park and Disturbed, cliche emo bands that people like to make fun of. I used to listen to them a lot back in Middle School… I reflect upon how so foolishly I romanticized violence and self-harm back then. I wondered what it was like being mentally ill. I would’ve never predicted that I’d be sitting in college some night, unable to stop myself from cutting into my flesh, over and over. It was fucked up, a lot of my life has been.

Yet, why do I keep going back to that place back in Middle School? What is it about that romanticization of blood and pain that entice me to write gore-fest masterpieces? What is it about the past I tell everybody I condemn that I want so badly? If I know now how horrible it is to experience why do I want to replicate it on paper so much?

Even as I write this I’m scared to see what my friend my think, if he ever does read this piece. If I were him I’d accept that I’ve been stagnant and would probably not be writing anything for quite some time.

At any rate, at around 3:30 AM I will write my first dark piece in quite some time. I will publish it on here, for better or for worse and then in the morning proper I will reflect on it. Who knows? Maybe I’ll actually get somewhere.

Writing the Miserable Character