The Cosmic Joke

I’ve tried to kill myself many times over. I cut, burned, and mutilated my body for many years. One of my earliest memories involves me lying in a bedroom alone and crying, thinking about death. The memory is so strong not because of the content, but the feeling; It wasn’t fear, but more of an envy. Death, for a younger me, was a goal. I didn’t want to overcome death, I just wanted to achieve it on my own terms.

I’ve always felt somewhat outcast in my family. My dad is a psychologist of sorts, my mom held multiple positions in colleges and has spoken all over the country, my brother played trumpet, even in the Lincoln Center and in a few places in this country (though he stopped cold and now holds a government job that leaves him well off), and me? I had a brain, but maybe was born in the wrong time or place. At a young age I thought a lot about science.

I used to come up with theories pertaining to time, gravity, and the history of the universe and beyond. My parents saw me as intelligent, but riddled with depression and my ideas were manic obsessions, rants of the insane. Years later (and I mean over this past year) I came to learn a lot of my theories were now being studied, and were known as quantum theory involving superstrings. Science lulled my depression into a minor buzzing, but my parents quickly quashed those dreams. At night they used to talk about me, worriedly, and I would listen.

My ideas, to them, were a sign of me becoming a schizoid. Through multiple hospital trips, in which I spent months of my life being watched by doctors, I lost the fascination I once held and simply became just another over-medicated person. The fact of the matter is I do need medicine, because if I don’t take it I will kill myself (I still have suicidal thoughts, but more like bad dreams than like the serious ideas they once were).

Through all of this, a small part of my broken mind still considers grander things than my life, but I no longer hold that curiosity I once held. I hate this fact, and I hate that I lost something that comforted me so strongly. People say that ‘youth needs to be cherished’ or something along those lines, but not my youth. I chose a razor over a pen far to quickly, and for that I lost a part of me I loved.




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