Love on Wheelz

Me and my friend Chris, over at Griffin Writes, had a conversation a few months ago about life and why we even bother with it sometimes. What keeps us from giving up when things get hard and it all seems hopeless. Why we even bother to get up in the morning and grind out another day working towards some abstract dream that may or may not come true. So we decided to write about it and this is what came out. Griffin is in bold, hope you enjoy.

The sun lights up a clear blue sky outside my office window but all I see is gray, as though my pupils have been smeared with ash. Five stories below, the people filling the busy sidewalk seem so insignificant. My observation doesn’t come from a point of superiority because I’m definitely no better than them. I’m much worse. Pedestrians jostle for concrete – their sense of urgency seemingly dependent on the immediacy of their aimless goals. What’s the point?

It’s another Friday night. All the status updates on my facebook talk about parties, bars or concerts. It’s the weekend and everybody is having fun. Everybody but me. I’m home on my computer with my nurse and fighting with my brother over the television. I give up and let him watch Rush Hour for the billionth time. I put on the headphones and completely tune out the world around me. I need to connect with someone, anyone really. I need company, companionship, someone that wants to be with me. I need some social fucking interaction. So I go looking for it. I go on dating websites and message girls. Hi, I’ll say. No response. How are you, I ask. Still no response. Fuck it. What are you wearing? Nothing. Are you horny? Silence. Are you wet? Blank. Please talk to me. I wouldn’t talk to me either, much less when I talk like this. Why do I do this to myself? They want tall, dark and handsome; Not short, weak and crippled. It all feels so hopeless.

An older man in a suit emerges from his Mercedes. I assume his suit is expensive. Maybe he earned his money busting his ass as a young entrepreneur. Or maybe he’s strained all available credit to maintain appearances. Is he on his way to an important business meeting or to cheat on his wife? Perhaps he bought stock at the right time, or got a lucrative bonus for his decades of dedication to some corporate empire. No matter, he’s still over fifty years old. Is he happy? Is he fulfilled? What’s left for him? In thirty years he’ll be dead. Another half century after that, he’ll probably be forgotten.

And here I stand, furrowed lines running across my brow. I don’t have the motivation to blink, not due to fatigue but more out of apathy. The numbness provided by not caring is a necessary defense mechanism to quell the emotions that boil underneath. Rage and depression against the unjust battle that is life. Yet as much as I try to suppress the storm, I know it’s there. Deep breaths and hollow thoughts form a precarious barrier as serotonin levels plummet. Reason attempts to plug the holes in the dam but every once in a while a thought trickles through.

And it’s during these times when there’s no school to do, when there’s no one I can call to come over, that my mind starts to wander. I have wretched thoughts. I get feelings of utter hopelessness and I wonder what the point of all my fighting is. It seems like the harder I struggle, the quicker I sink. So these ideas start to creep into the edges of my mind. They dance in and out into the ether. Then they start to stay longer and longer and they grow . They grow to consume my thoughts. I start to think about how I could do it. Drive into the pool? No, I don’t like drowning. Driving off a sidewalk won’t guarantee it, but stairs would do the trick. I know it’s ridiculous and I would never do it. I’m too scared of the nothingness that waits for me on the other side. But they’re there all the same. It’s almost like a twisted fantasy that I don’t enjoy. I have no social life to speak of and I’m a huge burden on my family. They’d cry for a few days, but they’d be okay in the long run. And then I realize how much of a chickenshit thing that would be.

You work hard for nothing. Countless hours spent staying awake all night and into the morning hours until the sun rises again. Pounding away at a keyboard trying to gain an edge in life. The entire friends list on my chat program reads offline. Nobody awake to snap me out of my funk. I’m probably working myself into an early grave. Worse yet, there’s a very good chance that I’m doing it all for nothing. Just another chump. Maybe I should get some sleep… no, one more hour of work. Ignore the inner monologue and trudge on.

Give in. It’s so much easier to stick with your nine-to-five and be content. Waking up for work the next morning is torture. It feels like only seconds ago I was pulling the blanket over my eyes to shield the morning’s first signs of light. Now the glare is apparent through the blanket. Extreme agitation overwhelms my thoughts. I want nothing but sleep. Every noise, every sense I experience irritates me to vicious extremes. A moment before the screaming inferno inside me consumes my sanity, I stomp a defiant foot on the carpet beside my bed. I know if I can make it to the shower, I’ll get through another day at work, only to deprive myself of sleep once again by staying up into the morning hours.

You’re not special. Your struggle is no different than anyone else. Deadlines at work have piled up. The last article I posted on my website was garbage. I bombed at the comedy club. People in my life feel rejected because I don’t make time for them. I claw at my hair, my body hunched over my desk. I grab the mouse and pound it against the pad. What’s the fucking point? The web of mediocrity only ensnares me more as I thrash around to escape it. My selfish pursuits are detrimental to everything and everyone around me. I bury myself in work to avoid confronting an undesirable reality. I seek validation on a stage like a fiend. Laughter from strangers that rushes through me buzzing in every cell, only to leave me hopelessly deflated a few hours later. The frightening part is that in all likelihood, I’m way too late. I’m approaching thirty. There comes a time to stop fighting and rebelling. My drinking is out of control. I spend a third of my life drunk and another third battling hangovers so severe that I can barely think or speak. Hell, I’m probably concocting this whole “fighting the system” farce to support my blossoming alcoholism. It wont be long until I’m an isolated, washed up drunk. How often do I justify being a shitty person in the name of “chasing a dream?” It’s more like running from a nightmare. You worthless piece of fucking shit.

Death would be so easy. An official end to a fruitless march, a literal final nail in the coffin. Nothing awaits me beyond this life. Why don’t I get it over with sooner? A kid in my high school class tied a bunch of socks together and hung himself from a ceiling fan. There’d probably be a moment of panic, but I’m sure the overwhelming understanding that the war is finally over would bring tranquility. Better yet, I could step off a building’s rooftop. Every journey begins with a single step; this miserable journey could end with one more. And then nothing. So simple. All these experiences and frustrations summarized in a single act. Fuck it all.

I’ve scrapped and struggled to get ahead, never taking the easy way out. When my high school counselor told me I wasn’t going to graduate on time, I worked day and night to make up 30+ credits in just six months. I graduated about a month early. I worked myself sick (literally) for three years to get into a good school. I’ve constantly adapted to losing strength, not being able to eat and not being able to breathe. And to just end it because things got a little too hard is bullshit. It’d be an admission of defeat. That the world gave me more than I could handle. I’m too proud to ever admit that. Besides, feeling something is better than eternal unconsciousness. This brief spark of consciousness is all we have. When it’s gone, it’s gone for good. To just extinguish it because things got a little tough is not only a waste, but a crime against the very universe that created us.

Even after I tell myself all these things, they’re still there. They mock me, tempt me and tell me how worthless I am. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope that it’ll get better. That when I get to UCLA I’ll be able to start over and get things the way I want them. Then, maybe, I’ll be happy. Maybe then, I’ll be normal. Well, that’s not entirely why I keep going, it’s not the whole truth. I have this drive, this hunger to be great. The only way I can explain it is… you know when you’re at a great concert, or reading a great book, and you’re just hanging on the artist’s every word? That moment where you absolutely worship him and would do anything he asked you to? And for that moment, he’s the most important person in your universe. He is your God. That’s what I want. I want people to love me and worship me because of what I make. I need their adoration because I’m just an insecure little boy. I’ve been rejected by so many girls that all I want at this point is some validation.

I got to thinking about this – not the actual suicide, but the why’s of suicide – because my buddy Raul mentioned he entertains the thought. We’re reasonable people, so other people must have similar feelings. Here is a guy who suffers from muscular dystrophy, and by some medical accounts, could have met his expiry date a decade ago. Yet, he’s fighting the good fight everyday against odds that 99% of the population, including myself, will never understand. After making it this far, it strikes me as ludicrous that he’d give up now. Why would such a thought occur in the first place? A dozen or more answers come to mind, but among all of them is that we care. Paradoxically, wanting more during our finite lifespan causes us to consider terminating it, especially when the odds against us achieving what we desire are bordering on insurmountable.

But what if it doesn’t work out? What if I die miserable and alone? My body can decide to shit the bed and there’s nothing I can do. I know there’s a very slim chance I’ll ever have what I want. A girl, kids and being able to provide for them. All while being a published author and working with computers. I look at all the people around me and they’re all so normal. The cute couple that live in they’re own world, the group of college friends that are having a night out. They’re all tall and young and have it so easy. And as I watch them, the embodiment of everything I’ll never be, I wonder if they have the same thoughts.

Nobody sees or cares about an individual’s struggle. They only look at the results. There have been many before me that have overcome far greater odds to achieve success. I want what they have and I want it now, but that’s not how it works. More importantly, that’s not even the point. The point is to earn your rewards so that there is substance. Sure, buying the shell of a Lamborghini would look pretty, but what you really want are the guts inside. What’s under the hood will actually take you places.

They can’t, they’re too perfect. Them with their social lives and significant others. Them with their able bodies and perfect health. I once heard in a song that everything looks perfect from far away. Maybe that’s the case, but they’re looking pretty good from up close too.

There are stories of those who flatline only to receive a second chance at life. They insist upon the existence of whatever god they believe in as the DMT flooded their brains before the oxygen cut off. Maybe there is more to this life. If there’s one thing science has proven, it’s that we cannot even begin to grasp the complexities that surround us. The world is a remarkably interesting place. So many possibilities all out there for those willing to take them.

That’s what I’m trying to do here, be like them. And I understand that that may never happen, but that’s okay; I’ll still try. Even if I’m never like everyone, if I can carve out a little niche for myself then I think I can be happy. That’s not really all that different from anyone else, though. We’re all trying to find our place in the world, not everyone finds it, that’s just how life is. It’s the people that do that are the lucky ones, and hey, maybe I’ll be one of those select few. I’m sure everyone wishes that.

The truth is that these lows exist because we’ve made the decision to care. Four years ago, I decided that simple contentment wasn’t enough. Working during the week, watching television at night and relaxing over the weekend wont do. I need more. Despite all the hardships and moments of psychosis, searching for passion has its advantages. The highs when something finally clicks brought about by hundreds of hours of work perhaps only to exist for a minute make it all worthwhile. The trick is to find a way to take all that negative bullshit and funnel it into worthwhile endeavors. Convert it, and send it outwards to attack the world. It’s the hunger that propels you through the nights. The desperation that fuels you when nobody else is around to see it or care. The fury that makes you give a damn when everything is so bleak.

Now that I think about it, I’m not all that different after all.

This entry was posted on September 8, 2010 at 9:00 am and is filed under Stories. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.