Is it sad (as in pathetic, as in petty) if I consider my Chromebook’s ability to function at half capacity an analogy to myself and my life?
You see, I am an idiot. People say I’m smart, they tell me I have all these wonderful qualities and characteristics, that I’m hilarious, that I have common sense and a gift for connecting with people who also hurt internally. But in the grand scheme of things, I must be an utter moron.
What do I expect to happen when I leave juice next to an electronic device, and then decide to flop down on the bed like a whale?
The keyboard is shot and I’m hoping I tipped it upside down, stuck it in rice, and hair-drier-ed it quick enough that the motherboard won’t be affected by some sugary, monstrous after-effect.
It’s a touch screen, luckily, and that still works. But it’s not the same.
Its short life flashed behind my eyes the moment the liquid slid over the flat keys and seemed into all the little crevices. I remember the first day I got it and the freedom it provided me from this over-sized desktop.
But essentially me and it are connected in another intimate way. It looks like a 700 dollar laptop (it wasn’t anywhere near that price) but it functions at the capacity of a 40 dollar laptop now that half of it is disabled.
Generally, when I try hard enough, I can look like a million dollars. But I function at a capacity worth less than a penny.
I realize I am generally a disappointment to the people around me–whether or not they are willing to say it to my face. I realize I am a bit of a burden to people. I can’t handle much noise or people and I often shut down if I’m put in that situation–or I just embarrass myself trying to blend in to the crowd. I say odd things, make odd jokes, and have trouble relating or connecting to people on an emotional level. I’m not exactly the kind of person you bring home to your parents, either, because chances are I won’t talk to them.
I’m essentially the human version of y=sinx:
And regardless of whether or not I enjoy that, I’m aware it creates a kind of pressure upon people I’m around.
You can say “well, those are the people you shouldn’t be around”.
But that’s every person. Whether they are willing to say it or not, whether they let it bother them or not, they are taking on extra baggage by simply being involved with me.
I weep randomly like an abused toddler.
But if you asked someone who knows me in a general sense, they would tell you I’m always laughing and cracking jokes and the majority of them have probably never seen me shed a tear, even if I hurt myself. And they may call themselves my friend, and I may call them my friend as well, but the connection they have with me will always be undoubtedly more shallow than others they may have.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing. Because for them, they have many kinds of connections with many people.
Through my eyes, I see myself distanced from everyone, consistently cut off from humanity. I agree I may contribute to that consciously a bit, but I believe a lot of it is unconscious behavior that I know nothing about.
So naturally I’ve contemplated suicide many times in my life, and I still do.
I think it’s a normal behavior for many people. Some people want to end it because of a job, because of an issue at school, because of an issue with their family . . . none of them are ill, or disordered for God’s sake, they just want a way out; they’re feeling trapped.
I’ve always felt trapped and I believe to some extent I always will be. Humans are not exactly a species I understand on an emotional level. I try to relate but I can’t. I think the act of trying so much as made me even more distant.
So when I’m feeling claustrophobic within my own mind and my own space, and when I’m planning the best way to leave earth without much pain or gruesome clean up, and when I’m contemplating what day and time I should go, who my belongings should be inherited by, I try and think about the things I will miss.
I ignore the thoughts of all the people who would supposedly miss me, not because I’m insensitive and not because I don’t care for those people, but because I want to find a reason to live for myself. I’m sick of having to endure things for the sake of others, and life is one thing I’ve been enduring for others.
I live for everyone else, constantly. I do what they wish me to do not because I’m comfortable but because I know it makes them happy and I would like to make as many people happy as I can.
Don’t confuse this with being a push-over. Ask anyone I know and they will tell you if I don’t agree with something I will give a full hour lecture on the stupidity of it all.
But when it comes to actions, things that I know other normal people do, I try and agree to them because I want to lessen the burden of my “oddness” upon others and instead place everything on my own shoulders. I suck at giving gifts, but if you want me to go to a movie with you on premier night, I probably will.
I try and think about the birds and how weird it would be to never hear them chirp again. I try to think about the clouds and the sky and how weird it would be to never feel rain on my skin again, how weird it would be to never feel a headache again (of which I have right now), how weird it would be to never heard another laugh or to laugh, to never hear or feel wind, or thunder, to never pet another cat or get licked by another dog.
Do I want to give up an opportunity to experience all of that?
This doesn’t stop me from feeling trapped or like a burden or useless or any other negative thing I associate with myself, but it does stop me from doing anything rash.
And isn’t that what life is about anyway? Aren’t we always trying to find new ways to cheat death?
My brain has been living in emotional survival mode the moment I spotted another human being outside of my immediate family. That’s 21 years of constantly fighting, and it’s tired.
I might not remember anything about my childhood, but I do remember feelings. And there isn’t a moment from my childhood I remember feeling comfortable with the world around me or the people around me. I was aware I wasn’t like them and no one told me that was alright. That’s a lot to deal with as a 4, 5, 6, year old.
They told me I’d grow out of it all.
I’m still trying to figure out what they meant.