Max is NOW!

How does one say “I’m feeling suicidal”? Is it always a cry for help? I don’t want any help. What could anyone else do? Anesthetize it? What about when it’s not a cry for help, but a simple conclusion. Is there something wrong with feeling meaningless?

I’m eating funions and drinking a coke. Yea, I feel suicidal. It’s never got me before. I just wish I could tell someone. But it’s like a crime. It’s like a fucking weight you haul onto someones head. Why? “Because it’s a cry for help.” What about when it’s not a cry for help, and you just want to be a person and share how you feel. You can’t. It’s too cool to be suicidal now. So people say it like its nothing. It is something, its human. I’ll admit it, I’ve had a bit to drink. And more than likely that’s impairing my judgment. But am I gonna pull any triggers? No. Why? Because I can’t. My parents would never recover. My friends would be rather put out. And everyone else, well, they would call it a waste. That, that is exactly why I can’t. Because that same worhtlessness, that very exact meaninglessness is in conflict with my first emotive response. “No one cares.” But they do. And because more than anything my heart aches at the thought of hurting them, and so I save myself from the blade. I am just a piece of flesh in the end, but to them I am Max. And that word has bore on me more weight than any other. I am resonsible for myself, I. And I cannot let anything take me under. Not even the winter of loneliness I currently endure. This isn’t about writing, crys for help, or any of that bullshit. It’s about a human life, my human life. It’s about feeling like refuse, like worthless trash after everything I have done. And I have done a lot, but so little at the same time. I wasn’t born into money, I wasn’t born into fame or fortune, and I wasn’t born into the heart of a creator. I was born Max: worker, liver, sleeper. I work at irrelevant ends, I live beyond my means, and I sleep terribly, knowing that one day it will end and I will not be remembered long.

I bought a single lottery scratcher on my way home tonight. I told myself I would end it all if I didn’t win. Not because the money would make matters better, but because I knew the odds were against me. I settled in here, with my funions, cola, and cigarettes. I lit one, and I scratched at the ticket. Nothing. No winnings, no life. I stared at the ticket for almost 20 minutes, hoping I saw something wrong. I didn’t. Then I realized, I couldn’t do it if I wanted to. I don’t know why. Because of what they would say about me, because of the pain I would cause my parents to bear, all of it, I don’t know. And then I saw the fatal flaw of it all. I wanted to end it because I saw my own irrelevancy, but I couldn’t because I felt my relevancy. It’s not ironic, just irrational. I wasn’t important enough to live, and too important to die. I am a ghost, stuck between two worlds. The one that would spit me out and the one that I would call home. But, they are the same world, the same people, the same cold reality. In this I am lost…and afraid. Afraid to act out my promise, afraid not to. So I hung the lottery scratcher on my wall, that one day I may either throw it away or make good on my promise. It’s not a cry for help, no one can DO anything but me. It is what they call “becoming.” You either adapt or fall to the wayside.