Yeah, I know. They’re the same feelings of misery as usual, and I still can’t express them in words. What a pitiful state of affairs.
This marks the third day in a row I’m taking off from school, not counting the weekend that just ended. I didn’t get a headache, but I’m still vaguely dizzy. I just want to curl up in a ball and keep sleeping, except I’m pretty sure I’ve used up my quota for today and nothing good is going to come from me pushing it further.
I hate having to make so many choices without knowing anything. I hate all these possible-responsibilities that I’m always worrying too much about. See, my English essay is a weekend overdue and I still don’t know whether a peer edit is in order. Something else involving buying drinks has to happen for our geography carnival booth. I should have a nice puzzle for the celebration two weeks from now, which my inner perfectionist hates. Also, we have a biology cell project due in a week too. Whee.
I’m afraid of making commitments, but every second I’m spending here, or anywhere, is another permanent commitment about how I chose to spend that instant. Sometimes there are ways to make up for it, but I can never go back to change the instant itself. These are the instants, the things you don’t notice; it just gets scarier if you zoom out. But life is just this sequence of commitments. The indecisive guys get left behind in the dust.
Of course, that’s just my problem. I don’t have anything rational to base my choices on. I simply wish I had a more proactive strategy to follow than “wait it out”. I’d even rather have some sort of breaking point to look forward to, like if I could throw up and feel better after a few minutes of torture. Even maybe suicide. I hate myself for even allowing myself to think of that word, because I know how it completely fails to be a solution on every front, but how can I deny my own thoughts?
I think, really really deep down, I still believe that one day far into the future I’ll be finally able to see the whole “life is good” thing for once and for all. But it seems just so unrealistic, frighteningly out of reach. Three years isn’t getting any closer at all. It’s unbearable, but I don’t know about any other options. This is it, my own personal hell. Really generic lousiness.
I still don’t have the words to communicate what this feels like. Maybe I never will. Why me?