Gerard's misery doesn't need company, just an audience.
It took such a long time to get to this place, to see things the way I do and to experience every situation with just the right amount of cynicism. I feel as though I have a sixth sense, almost. I can detect bullshit without ever even trying. Now that I've reached my final destination, I feel at peace with how things have turned out thus far. I can see into the future, and it isn't bright; it isn't even lit. My future is abysmal, dark, wretched: The oblivion.
And everything is going to be all right.
It started out as a way of making it through the day. First I'd scratch an outline of the many dirty things I wanted to do to myself. I received quite the rush every time I picked up a blade. Then I became an expert at carving shapes, words, poems into my skin. My flesh was a particularly fresh canvas, if I may take a moment to brag. I was flawless until I wasn't anymore, and that was the end of that. Next I moved onto bigger and better things; I was an actor who had discovered life outside of mediocre sitcoms and I longed for so much more. There was now bruising, oozing, burning, erasing. I was erasing the person I had been as a child, eliminating his very existence. Before long I was a work of art. I had wicked designs on every follicle and pore; I was priceless.
But then the pain wasn't enough anymore, and I had to settle for second best. I discovered what numbness could do to a person, and then I took the plunge.
So that was what I like to refer to as my "junkie phase". You name it, I took it. And I never regretted a thing once I learned to live in the moment. Once you're in the moment, you never have time to think about the past, or the future. No mistakes you've made, people you've hurt or damage you've done means a thing in this world to a person like you. You're head-over-heals, cash-in-your-chips-ladies-and-gentlemen-'cause-this-is-the-real-deal in love with your sorrow, and nothing will get in the way of such a beautiful marriage to your woe. I got to the point where the booze tasted good and the pills were breakfast, lunch and dinner. High as the fucking sky and without a parachute for backup.
Of course, all great things must come to an end. I beloved something new, something clean and good for me in every way society will recognize. He was the prettiest fucking thing a faggot like me could ask for. Chapped lips, soft skin, shaggy hair like you wouldn't believe. He thought the sun rose and set for me, and me alone. He was perfect. I could handle the chain-smoking, and the binges, and the wailing for me to sing him a song at 3 o'clock in the morning, because for the first time since being in the womb I felt like a part of someone; I felt fused to this guy; his genes were mine, and vice versa. Like I said, he was perfect. Until he wasn't anymore.
I remember the night he left, and the way he said all that he did, but as funny as it might sound, I can't recall the dialogue. Does that ever just happen to you? Your clearest memories grow hazy from neglect. I tried so hard to forget until trying just wasn't cutting it anymore, and instead I had to cut into something that might. I trained myself, I guess you could say, to remember such intense physical pain every time his face would appear before me in a vision. I'd remember the cuts, the scrapes, the bruises, and then I'd blame him for them. He did this to me, he made me the way I am today. And before I knew it, he was public enemy number 1, and I couldn't stand the thought of him.
So life sped up again, and seasons changed. I never could get used to the weather, no matter how hard I tried. When it was cold, I shivered despite my best efforts, and in the Summer I could feel my body lose moisture like it was a freshwater spring. Alcohol wasn't just something I drank to make the pain go away, it was something to keep it from sneaking up on me again. I couldn't sleep without something in my system, and even then finding rest was hard. It's not like my schedule was booked or anything. I had lost my friends when I lost my will to live, and probably before then, even... I can't really remember. I'd find myself wandering hallways and corridors wondering if the people passing me by were happy or sad, if they were just as fucked up as I was or even worse. I became so interested and passionate about their lives that I completely ditched my own, and then of course that morphed into stalking, which then led me to believe (for only a brief time, in my defense) that I had friends again. I think I sort've snapped back to reality after my first introduction to a fine invention known as the "restraining order". I'm not an idiot, I got the point.
I got kicked out of school because I tried too hard to be a professor myself and forgot all about that whole being-a-student issue. I finished my work but never turned it in; I relied on those text books to teach me something about life I had yet to discover for myself, and still would if I hadn't sold them online some months back. I even lost myself in music for a while. I took a long spell being really interested in melodies and having a go at writing my own lyrics. The few people I showed my material to told me they were very good, and of course I never believed them.
I took a trip once, and just allowed myself to live again. I thought I was doing it right, and felt like I was really getting the hang of being human again, when something got in the way. I realized that despite my intellect (or according to the college, lack thereof) and nonjudgmental standpoint in life, I was still hopelessly alone. At the beach, I was alone. In the market, alone. In the midst of a crowded room I was lonelier than once could possibly fathom. So I accepted it, and learned to work around such an issue. If I was going to be by myself for the duration of my stay here on earth, I was at least going to act like it didn't bother me.
But god, it did. I'd wake up at night nearly strangling my pillow in the hopes of feeling a pulse. I kissed the walls and spoke to the ceiling. Sometimes I think that drywall received more from me than anyone else ever did. I tried investing in a journal, but could never remember to utilize it. Instead I narrated things in my head (sound familiar, anyone?) and made sense of the observations I would make throughout the day. Nothing worth recording, of course.
I don't really know what I was at those times. Comparatively speaking, those were the brightest times of my life. I was "happy", and content. Ever high as a kite, but lucid all the same. Then one day, something just snapped.
I remember the tiles of the bathroom floor leaving a laughable pattern on my ass. I just rocked back and forth like that was what all the twenty-somethings my age did. The world didn't feel real, and I didn't feel alive, and nothing seemed to be what it was. In retrospect I suppose I should have called someone, or perhaps started to pray, but I just couldn't. I needed that meltdown to teach me a lesson I had already known. That my time was officially up.
So tonight I've got something special in mind. I have plans to fly tonight, you see? But not in any old aero-plane, no that would be silly. I'm going to take the biggest leap of faith I ever have, and wish for the best. I suppose this confession could be considered my last goodbye, but it should also constitute as my first. See, I've never said farewell to anything before. It's all said "bye" to me.