People: the ramblings of a madman

The Confessions of a Madman

Today, I was meant to die. Four weeks ago, I attempted to end my own life by using a dull metal blade and pressing it against my throat. These are the confessions of a madman. I suppose the best way to find solace in a lack of guilt or remorse is to contrive it. To wear enough masks is to become enough people to please at least one, I suppose, even if that one is myself. I have lied to everyone I have ever met. I have lied about who, what, and how I am. To many, I am silent, mostly intelligent, but often just silent. Often times, I am also charismatic and humorous. To some, I am a philosopher; to others, a poet. The truth behind all of this, though, is that I am none. Like some warped version of impostor syndrome, I play the part others wish for me. I do not know who I am. When I am alone, I entirely break down and change my identity as a means of entertaining myself. I have certain interests, but often I pick them up to appeal to others. To many, I am a follower of the Stoic philosophers, and I do believe there is some shred of truth to each of their writings. I also believe that there is a shred of foolishness in them as well, for they were written by people, and people are flawed and often foolish. It is fair to argue that allowing emotions to shape our lives causes chaos, but the universe itself is chaos. To live is to become a part of the eternal chaos.

I have a buzzing, a pressure, constantly on my mind, weighing on my shoulders. It is not stressful, but it is a pressure, the pressure of the chaos of life. Background noise, a constant static of the familiar concept of reality. To be conscious is to be consciously aware that you are conscious and aware of that as well. This means that we are conscious in a loop of consciousness. There is a theory that we are a single mind, a single thought that existed. In my mind, there are millions of untold, unfinished bittersweet stories. For some, it is a man and his children; for others, wanderers of the desert who find their lives in the secrets of the desert, who become one with it and escape it, who are shaped by their surroundings and warped, sanded down, and softened by the harsh winds. Another story is about a king and his brother, who both war eternally over the kingdom, who were once best friends and turned into the greatest of enemies. There is also a very simple one. It is the story of a ring and a tree. Allow me the pleasure of telling you.

There is a ring, a golden or perhaps brass ring, which a girl and her friend leave on a tree branch. The ring fits it perfectly as it slides down to it, and then the tree grows with and around it. It glimmers in the sunlight. Years later, they return, finding the ring still upon the tree. Initially, the girls put it there as a marking of their companionship, but since then, it has warped and shifted. Time has worn them early each, and so they view the ring. And with it, they still last. Within a year, the second girl, who slid the ring upon the tree, tragically dies. Now, this story has variants, but in all of them, despite why, she ends her own life. The first girl returns to the ring, still upon the tree, years and years later, and each time, the ring remains there as the old oak grows and creaks and shifts in the wind. The ring remains.
Four weeks ago, I attempted to end my own life. Three weeks ago, the concept of it consumed me.
I have always lived as if I am a narrator. I have told the stories of hundreds, of my friends. Each person I have encountered, I have had the knack to fully understand them in an instant. However, with time, that did not matter. There were too many stories, and I became apathetic. When put in the face of empathy and forced to endure pain with others enough times, you will lose your empathy. I know the stories of many, many people. Close friends, family, relationships. I understand people quite simply, but I fear people do not understand me. I wish to end my own life, but often I believe my depressing ideologies and the wish to end life is for attention. Often, moreover, I understand that I do not understand myself and instead simply understand the front I put up for others. The front merely benefits me. I feel nothing for most other people. In fact, for most things, I feel nothing. The most crucial human aspect, to be able to give the greatest human gift that all people should be able to give—love—I lack. Therefore, I am not human; I am simply pretending. I have always been unhappy, longing for a past I have never had. Perhaps a childhood of more love or adventure. Perhaps just a childhood at all. Instead, I have always been a storyteller. I believe it is the greatest gift and burden to bear. To hear and see everything, yet never be heard or seen. I am nothing, and in the same sense, all others need me. I am the historian who tires from his own writings, who dislikes the history he tells. The one unable to change the history but forced to witness it all is a very strange sort of torture. I have millions of stories in my mind. A girl and a boy. The girl in a sky-blue skirt on a pale sun-washed red bike, a small pink basket in front made of metal. The boy running behind her, his hair whipped in the wind. Years pass. Their story is a tragedy, and perhaps one of the oldest I can remember imagining. Even simple objects have a story to them, and either I imagine it or I contrive it. A camera, which captured a relationship, a reminder of the past that can never be revisited. I believe cameras are cruel. They can only show what once was, without ever allowing you to fully return to it. Another of my problems is that I often imagine my present as if it is the past. I layer a thick film of nostalgia over each moment of my life, rather than actually ever living. I truly hope this is an uncommon condition, for it is the worst pain I have endured. Stories form themselves in my mind. The fields of flowers on a mountainside, staring down at a small city. A boy who leaves his mother on some grand quest. Who dies. Whose mother weeps, without any further story to be told. The saddest stories are the ones without a plot, I believe. The story of an old tape container, which sits and gathers dust in an attic forever. I believe a great many things about the human creature and philosophy as a whole, but this is about me. This is the first time I have written about myself, my true self. This is the first time I have explained my identity, my personality. I am a ghost. I drift from person to person, haunting them, before disappearing altogether. Last week, I bought pills as to end myself with. Last night, I woke up for the first time. I felt truly alive. It's strange to me, the sensation of what can be called living For one can live within life, and one can die within life, but it is still called life. And life and death were both created in the human mind. The theory that we exist for a glimmering moment in all of time and reality is interesting to me because I love the poetry of it. I am a poet who contrives his stories. I write what I know people will read, not what I actually wish to say. That is why I never write about myself. I do not write about myself because I am an uninteresting person. Instead, I simply write about others. Other things, other people, and so on. I create, rather than inform. Few people know much of anything about me. Very few, in fact. I feel very awkward at this time because recently two more people have learned of my wish for suicide, and frankly, they interest me as well. I have always wanted some prophecy about myself. I have always wished for someone or something to tell me what is wrong with me or who and what I am. The few diagnoses I have had are interesting, but I feel inaccurate. I could have antisocial personality disorders or narcissistic personality disorders. Many believe I have depression, and many more think it's dysthymia. I am a pathological liar and often never feel guilt or care for anything. Other times, I care too much about the life of a small bug. I am too overcome with empathy to even aid the injured person. And yet, other times, I would partake in harming others for fun. I believed it was a sense of inner justice I held. The background noise many think is some form of ADHD, but I disagree. Some have also claimed that it's imposter syndrome.

In fact, the only thing I truly believe I have is an entirely new phenomenon I have created to describe myself: "Story-Teller Syndrome." Within this syndrome, one does not know who they are. They are often deeply confused by their sense of identity, similar to borderline personality patients. They suffer from what could be described as depression; however, they don't fully agree that they are overcome by pure hopelessness. It can be characterized with hopelessness, but more so with a film of nostalgia over everything. They feel a sense of imposter syndrome and wear masks depending on their audience. They feel a sense of apathy towards not only their life but that of others, or may value the lives of others more than their own. They may view others as characters and themselves as purely static, a narrator. They perceive others with ease but cannot perceive themselves. They feel no pressure or anxiety about others, although they believe they do not care for them or understand them in any way, shape, or form. They feel a desperate need for some sort of plot in their own lives but are unable to change, and perhaps wish not to. They are consumers and see and hear everything. They understand everything except themselves. This may be a symptom of neglect; however, it is unclear. As society views those with antisocial personality disorders as parasites, these individuals would be perceived somewhat similarly because they do not know who they are and so they cling to others. They may often be selfless because they view themselves as nothing. Some part of them questions reality, and with a constant background "noise" of consciousness, they are painfully aware they exist at all times. As a result of this, they are prone to fits of dissociation or simply feeling like they have shifted personalities or realities. They tell stories they do not play a part in and are often caught off guard when given personal and individual attention. This can lead to anxiety, deep-rooted fears, breakdowns, or some deep reaction as a whole. Often, this is fear that they have been revealed
for wearing a mask or believe that no one loves or understands them because of this mask. They lie because they do not know who they are and have a skewed perception of the truth. Overall, they are what can only be described as lost souls, and this isolation can lead them to feel hopeless and depressed.

Others may contrive scenarios for this individual's attention, and it becomes the only way they feel truly alive or struggle to have personal habits or hobbies they can identify. They may attempt suicide simply for the sake of adding a "plot" to their existence.

These individuals are lost, and the question of whether they can find themselves is yet to be revealed.