Dear dariy

Diary no.1

The teetering snow falls upon the lightened, white pathway, dimly flickering street lamps providing a small glow to enlighten the path for passers-by. It's exactly 5:33am and, for many normal organisms, it is the time to rest. For me however, this is the occasion to wander the icy, deserted streets. Not because of the 'wonders of Christmas', but because of how intriguing emptiness and lack of light truly is.

If darkness were to be a human, much like you and I, I imagine it to be somewhat like I. I would not particularly call it 'being left alone', much more along the lines ofr 'feared' yet 'undisturbed'.

I can recal people frequently asking why I am feared and, although I can understand and interpret their theories, I still find it to be no excuse for how they see me. Cowardly is a much more accurate word to describe their attitude towards me.

I 'suffer' with three disorders. Selective mutism, trichotillomania and schizophrenia. I write the word 'suffer' in that way because, when thought about it thoroughly, what I have is equilvalant to problems that other people live with, just in different forms and branded with different names.

People often use these as a reasonto perceive me as a monster, but I do not tend to acknowledge their remarks.

I am often questioned about my selective mutism and how 'it must be so hard to resist the urge to talk'. Personally, I have determined that they just do not understand the situation as clearly as I do, even though the answers are blindingly obvious.

For one, I often choose not to use my voice because I don't feel the need to.

With normal people, if they want to say something, possibly to offer a contribution to a conversation or to begin a new one, they do it, because deep inside them there is an urge to voice what is dwelling on their minds. They choose to embrace that feeling rather than push it away.

I do not have that urge, that scratching, pleading need, therefore I do not speak.

The schizophrenia is not much of an issue, because it only occurs occasionally and in certain extreme situations.

The one I receive my infamous nicknames from is the trichotillomania.

I truly think this disease is a curse, and it leads me to feeling all kind of negative things, like self consciousness and/or extremely low self esteem. I was diagnosed with it when I were only 6 years young, and my life has been miserable ever since.

I have never liked hats. I deteste the rotten things. In my eyes, hair is something that should live and flow, wild and free, not have it's existence masked by a design of fabric or cloth.

But alas, I have had to live life with a hat pulled firmly on my head ever since my mother's discovery of this diagnosis. I recall how she used to say to me that she "refused to live with a son that had hardly any hair on his head and wanted to display it" to which, of course, I found both offensive and unbelievable.

I cannot wait for the day that I can finally be rid of my mother, to soar free into the world, like a gentle dove, just learning to fly without it's parents' aid, to see the planet through the eyes of a free being. Although the wishes are big, my fears restrict me and I find myself to be a coward for allowing my worries to get ahold of my aspirations.

I suppose, as I get older, the fears will subside, and if they do not, then I shall have no other choice but to face them, if I choose to live that long. I long for the day that I'll have independance, to go through days and weeks without people's doubts haunting me.

You see, it is seemed that, because of my mental disabilities, I am much less capable of completing even the simplestt of tasks and, to be perfectly honest, that is anything but the case. Personally, I consider myself to be, if anything, much MORE capable of living life than the average person.

Normal people lack imagination and creativity, whereas I am practically bursting with it.

I do not say these things to sound arrogant or obnoxious, I say them because they are entirely true. I have come to a conclusion that my imagination comes from my lonliness.

Ever since I were a young boy, I always had imaginary acquaintances and friends, since everyone in reality refused to befriend me.

But these companions were not as you'd expect them to be. No, they were the complete opposite. Some, from my decisions, had blue skin, some wielded emerald weapons and many had acquired special combat skills. I'd much prefer to have different, imaginary friends rather than painfully-boring, normal friends.

I am the kind of person who enjoys silence and peace. I seek solitude, to be truly alone. It's rather thought-provoking, in my opinion. When you're left alone, there is no voices to fill the silence, therefore your thoughts take the place of all that missing noise.

My mother always used to force me to make friends. She thought that it would help me achieve an advantage in life in terms of my social gain. I have never had an urge to have friends, it just isn't something I truly need to survive.

If anything, I despise having so-called 'friends'. Allowing yourself to open up to and to trust someone so much as to think of them as more than a mere acquaintance opens the foor to so many problems. Too many problems, in my opinion.

The thought of building relationships, all of that dedication and hard work, just to watch helplessly as they all shatter and fall through my quaking fingers terrifies me, and I personally believe that I'd never be ready for such a sacrifice.

The thought of friendship scares me, but any part of love terrifies me to no end.

I could never imagine loving someone, I barely acknowledge the slight likig of someone, let alone the feeling of loving. I am not an emotional person. Experiencing emotions seems to be something my body cannot comprehend, and I personally enjoy that.

No emotions means no heartbreak.

I am a very fragile person, both physically and emotionally. I know that, even without ever feeling them previously, even the slightest emotionally-damaging event could break me.

I imagine myself to be a form of silence.

An extremely underrated, mysterious source that is seemed to be something negativem and can be ruined by even the slightest action or word breathed.

The only thing that I ever have, and ever will, put my trust and love into is this diary, only because this is the only object I can use to fully express myself. And to reveal secrets because, after all, I shall be the only person in this present age to ever read this.

This is purely because I have a plan.

This plan is honestly the greatest one I have ever designed, and I'm truly happy with my decision to place this idea into action.

When the calendar finally flips to the 28th of April, 1996, I shall leave behind this pitiful world and fearlessly embrace death, much as I have always wished to.

I do not wish to do this to hurt anyone because, after all, I have no-body to hurt. I am simply doing this because I have grown tired of this place, and I feel as if I do not belong on this rock we call Earth.

I want to explore far beyond life, to finally discover what lies beyond a beating heart. I do not worry that I shall be met with eternal darkness because, as I said, I love to indulge in the beauty of light-starved sceneries.

I suppose after all of this, I should introduce myself since this could easily be discovered by a future organism, intrigued by this 'journal' of mine. (I'd much prefer to name it a recordation of my mind's functional and creative patterns, but it'd certainly be a mouthful to recite to others).

My name is Gerard Arthur Leonard Way, and this is the story of both my beginning and my end.