Acumen: Riddling Life

23. Zurich, Switzerland

Day 13

Love, caring, they're such wonderful words. They might be the sole reason for our actions. A very optimistic perspective, but isn't this what anyone wants? To be loved and cared? To know a human out there loves you and cares for you. It's a form of being accepted.

It must be great to perceive you have someone who loves you for who you are.

You believe the person claiming these feelings for you has them because of you. Isn't that what everyone assumes?

Logic asserts something else in this case. No one possesses these sentiments, just because it's you. You fall in love because you get a positive opinion concerning yourself when you're in love. You care for someone, only because either you're told to do so, indirectly, so the illusion of possessing free will isn't threatened, or you think good about yourself doing so.

See? All circulating around you. Not the individual subjected to these emotions.

Now imagine, this is the case of every single human on earth.

So, the conclusion is, it's lame to obsess over these matters, because everyone in your life does those things just to feel great about themselves, not giving a flying shit about you.

After knowing these things, I still give a damn regarding it.

The sad part is, no one gets this good vibe when they're around me. Which explains why I'm always alone, indicating I'm an awful person.

I even have solid proof for that, Mom, Dad, Theo and Avery.

Maybe I am selfish, contemplating ways of ending my life.

Perhaps it's an obsession, giving me an immense amount of semblance of having control, of myself and my life.

Otherwise, why would I count the things that have the potential of killing me whenever I enter somewhere? That's the first feature I notice walking into a room. The windows, if I can throw myself out of it, a bathtub in the bathroom to drown myself. Even when I down my pills, there is this wild second, every time, where I stare at the bottle of the pill and consider downing the entire contents. At that moment, I feel alive and in control.

In a car, that's the first image in my brain. Would the car crash? Can it end my life? Or crossing the street, the time a car or a bus race down and allows me to decide to stand in front of it or not.

I don't know if it's an obsession with death or I'm just simply suicidal. If this is what being suicidal is, I must say, it's a huge inseparable part of me. I can't remember the time these thoughts didn't cloud my head.

I wrap my arms tighter around myself, looking outside the moving train with glazed eyes. One more hour to go before we reach Zurich.

I tried to read, but it was impossible. I can't focus, unable to think.

It's like I never went to the psychiatrist, took all those medicines for years, which for sure have made my liver into a soon to be pharmacy. I'm back to square one. Of being a screwup, of course.

That's something nobody understands, or doesn't want to, including Theodor. There is no hope, no matter how long I stay under treatment, regardless of how many pills I take, nothing will change, with the slightest trigger I'm thrown back to point A, as if I've never tried.

Similar to being addicted to heroin. With countless efforts you rid yourself of it, but the moment you're alone in a room with a packet of heroin, it may be next to impossible not to crave it and end up taking it. The addict being me, and my drugs are these thoughts.