I wonder when everyone who loves me will ultimately realize that nothing is going to come of it. The people who believe in me, who think I’m somewhere above average, the ones who say I’m smart and that my future is bright. I wonder when they’ll realize. I know that when they do they won’t care that they have, but I just wonder how many times I’ll have to shove my lazy, selfish mediocrity down their throats before they swallow. As I write this, I’m lying next to my mother. She’s asleep now; she woke up to the sounds of my crying, but I think the pull of unconsciousness beat out mild concern for the sixtieth anxiety attack of mine she’s witnessed this month.
I have a life-determining test in almost 24 hours. I barely studied for it. Not because I lacked time, adderall, or study materials. I just didn’t do it because I’m lazy. I couldn’t muster up the drive to ensure I can perform at my best on test day. But now, on the eve of said day, I’m panicking. I’m panicking because I have, somewhere stuffed deep down in my psyche, this idea of myself as a genius. It’s taken 21 years for me to come to terms with the fact that I’m nowhere near the intellectual capability of very many close associates of mine. I think that’s really what I clung to all these years. When people would call me a slut, obnoxious, attention-seeking, ugly, I think I secretly rebutted it with self assurance in my smarts.
It’s funny how you can trick yourself into things like that. It’s some product of evolution to promote survival of the genes you carry. If you believe in you no matter what negative input comes from the outside, then you’ll have a better chance of deluding yourself into thinking it’s a good idea to create a smaller you, and the genes can go on in their eternal arms race. Honestly, I don’t even really know what arms race means, haha! It’s kind of liberating to admit it now. I’ve always thought I could write, but is it that I can mimic?
The funniest thing about this whole note thing is that I’ll probably screenshot it and send it to someone. Someone I know will pour hydrogen peroxide in the gashes, cover them in gauze, and medical tape them to my skin so tight I’ll be too scared to rip it off anytime soon. My fucked-up consciousness will STILL reach out for reassurance. Please tell me I’m good. No, tell me I’m better. If I can’t do it, YOU do it. One word from the mouth of a boy who is noticeably kinder to me when I have on makeup, and I’m fixed. Reinvigorated, I’m ready to go back to convincing myself that I can somehow lead some sort of worthwhile existence. This isn’t to say I’m going to kill myself, because I’m not strong enough for this either. I’ll simply carry on. I’ll be normal. I’ll be lazy. I’ll disappoint those close to me, several times apiece. I’ll never perform at my very best because I’ll be too fucking lazy to do the prep work. I’ll be honest and dishonest and yell a lot. I’ll fix my emptiness temporarily, again and again. I’ll carry on with a needle in my hand, suturing a smile into my face and I treading heedlessly over the outreached hands of better people who genuinely want to help me. I’ll throw up in Ubers and make my parents spend money they don’t have on things I don’t need. I’ll apply to volunteer at animal shelters then quit after a month.
I used to think it was all so beautiful. I still do. I see the same magic in the drowsy sunrise over the Pacific Ocean as I walk home from a night of bad sex with some fraternity boy who lent me his worst tee shirt. I see the magic in baby animals and big city lights. It’s all still there. I’m just not there to partake in it. It’s the special ones who make the magic. It’s the rest of us who stand palms pressed against the window as our noses redden from the cold, watching as the Christmas Tree’s being decorated by the family of four. We made too many fucking people. We can’t all fit. You actually have to be talented or be the 1% of people who take stupid risks that actually pay off. I won’t be dead, no. But I’ll be damn close. Just like everyone else. Just like everyone.