The Problem is Me [EDITED)

Chapter 23

November, 2014

I’m not ashamed to say I saw a psychologist (or five) I used to be, but not so much anymore. That stuff doesn’t work by the way. I had just survived eight years of therapy and I was feeling alright I guess. That was something, right? When it comes to progress- I think I should take what I can get.

They honestly thought that therapy could help someone like me?

Blake was at school, so that left my mother and I in quite possibly the awkwardest situation I have ever been placed in. Imagine turning up for your first day of school, and whilst everyone is staring you down; you fall straight on your face in front of them all. That is roughly how awkward it was.

We were sat face to face at opposite sides of the dinner table; she was shakily holding a cup of coffee in one hand and holding a cigarette in the other. I damn well nearly held out my hand and asked for one but I didn’t want to add to the tension.

“I’m going to call the hospital; you’re not fit to be here.” She gave me the infamous evil eye and I scoffed.

“Oh please. You’re probably not gonna want to do that, mom.” I drawled on the last word, saying it with a little bit more venom than needed.

She squinted, “And why’s that?”

I shrugged carelessly and took it upon myself to pull out a cigarette from her pack and light up whilst she just stared at me in slight shock. “It’s not going to look good on anyone’s record if they have a history of child abuse.”

I blew out a puff of smoke and laughed softly at her expression.

“What on earth are you talking about? You know full well that there is no record of child abuse on my part. Look, I’m sorry about how things were with your dad when you were growing up, but you’ve got to let go. I haven’t been reported for child abuse.” She seemed to be losing her cool with me, and I couldn’t be more pleased.

“Yet.” I smiled.

Almost as if in slow motion she lifted the coffee mug up and slammed it against the table so hard the entire surface shook upon impact. She pulled on the roots of her hair in frustration and let out some sort of noise which sounded anything from a pig to a horse getting a thermometer shoved up its ass.

“Why do you do this? Do you get some sort of sick pleasure from doing it?” I just looked at her whilst she continued her outburst. “Well okay, good game Nathan. You win, do you hear that? You win!” She screamed.

I stood up and easily towered over her, like a lion stalking its prey. “Michelle. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? You’re going from knowledge of when I was what, eleven? I’m sixteen soon, and I’m ready to get this party started now. As much of a good game you think you’ve seen, it hasn’t even started yet. And this time, mother; I make the rules, so you better pray to god that you don’t let anything slip.” I smiled whilst saying this, and she looked more frightened than a white girl in a parking lot at night with no service on her phone.

“Oh my god…” she whispered.

She gulped nervously as I continued, “Do you want to know what the truth is? The truth is that there is no god. Only me.” I smirked before patting her on the head gently, taking her pack of cigarettes and walking away swiftly.

I walked up to my room and sat on the bed with my back pressed up against the wall. I guess you could call it my room, it’s not like I’m going anywhere anytime soon.

I need entertainment, I’m incredibly bored.

Why do people feel like they have any right to tell me what to do? It’s my life, why should they have a say in anything I do? That’s probably why I don’t get on with, well, anyone really. I’ve never been able to form strong relationships with the people around me; it used to get on my nerves a bit when I was a kid but now not so much. I’m content being alone. Better off, even.

Earlier today I came across the greatest discomfort I have ever known, in the mirror I looked myself in the eye and I saw nothing. And when I say nothing, I mean nothing. There was no life in sight, the eyes that reflected my own had nothing to them. I don’t know how something can get that empty, but I’ve seen it first-hand now.

I kept telling myself, don’t think. Don’t. Think. Thinking always did more harm than good. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to get back out there. How did I know if I was ready to go back into the big wide world? How did anybody know? You just had to believe whatever they said. And they are everyone, man.

People are always believing shit other people tell them. Teachers, politicians, psychologists, doctors - half the time I don’t think they know what they’re talking about either. Not that they’re worse people because of it, but they’re definitely no better. I swear people would eat their own shit if a doctor told them it would help.

Not long ago they cured mental illnesses by removing half your brain (which technically worked, you can’t feel pain when you’re dead). They tossed women into rivers and if they survived they’d be burned as witches. If they drowned? Tough shit. Maybe shit-eating could be considered progress; I know a few people that would rather eat shit than take pills. It almost makes sense when you think about it.

In another 100 years somebody will be writing about how dumb we all were for letting doctors prescribe us all those pills (until then let’s keep popping them).

In the end you just have to play along. You don’t have much choice. As if trapped in a never ending game of make-believe most people change characters with every new situation. A matter of survival probably. You hear it all the time: “People don’t change”. That’s simply not true. I’ve watched many a guy go from sinner to saint the second a pretty girl walked in the room.

This is one of the few things I know with absolute certainty, because I do it all the time. I’ve seen girls do the same. Change isn’t always bad either. I did go from being completely desolate to content in six months - positive change. That’s what my psychologist told me anyway, right before she said that if I didn’t start making an effort I was going to end up in the gutter and I told her she needed a new job.

I was once told I had a problem with authority. I didn’t. I was just indifferent towards the whole scheme. Maybe they assumed I was arrogant. They figured I didn’t care about anything which is strictly speaking true. Can’t they see that was the problem?

Would you like me to put this into a poetic term? A squashed fly; a bird with a broken wing; that one rotten fruit; a once beautiful flower, now wilted from neglect; the lost dog posters; every newspaper article ever written; the homeless man digging through the trash; or that elderly widow sitting alone, doing her crossword puzzle. Of course they say the good die young. That stuff kills us every day.

Yet I’m still here… Maybe I’m not good, who knows. Everyone thinks they’re good when in reality very few are. I am not sure which side I fell on. I’m probably walking a tight-rope somewhere in the middle, but most likely leaning more towards the bad side. That’s really the most honest place to be.

But you can’t mull on that stuff too long. You have to find a way to cope; it’s all you can do. So I quickly figured out what people wanted to hear. I became good at that. That alone can get you pretty far. But, like everything, it had a price: I quickly lost sight of who I was. Why did I have to be anything?

It’s tough, out there. If you want to survive in this life then you have to be so many different things to so many different people. It becomes hard to tell what’s real. When you wear that many masks it’s easy to forget what your actual face looks like. 

I thought leaving that god forsaken hospital was going to make everything fall into place but fucking hell I think it’s falling apart again.

Waking up was a hard thing to do when I was there, and it still is now. The days of dreading group therapy and waking up to Evan already rambling about the dream he had last night are long gone, and that really sucks because I think as much as I do not want to admit it; I think I was getting better.

Notice that is in past tense. I feel like shit again.

I think I’m either going to kill someone, or myself. I’ll leave you on that lovely note, my friend.