anbwrites

Archive for February 2013

Turning twenty is probably exciting for most people. As for me, I wasn’t particularly enthused about still being alive.
I know it’s morbid, and awful, but there have been quite a few times where I really had just wanted to die. I didn’t have the courage, though, to take my life, and I try not to be selfish. Although I feel as if I’m hardwired with guilt just due to my existence alone, I’m frequently told how much I’m loved and cared about, and that these people would be heartbroken, were anything to happen to me.
I don’t believe them, though.
There are many people that are dead right now that deserve to be alive, and many people are alive that deserve to be dead, or worse, being beaten on a daily basis in prison due to crimes against children and animals. There is a special place reserved in hell for those kinds of people, in my opinion, along with the creators of the APA format.
I hope you all perish, due to the hell I’ve suffered in college, thanks to that damn format.
I probably sound cruel, but I don’t mean to. I don’t consider myself a mean person. In fact, I think I’m quite kind. Except when it comes to certain matters. I can have a harsh sense of humor, I laugh at times when it is most inappropriate, and I avoid seeing my grandpa at his nursing home at all costs.
I feel awful about it, honestly, but the pain that that place brings me is almost as bad as other pain I’ve felt. I cannot look at my grandpa’s face without thinking of his son: my dad, and how an 87 year old man is still alive, yet my dad didn’t see age 53, thanks to cancer.
For the record, I call it The Big C. It’s just easier, and sounds less threatening.
My mom tried to get me to see my grandpa often after my dad died, especially before I went off to college, but I couldn’t. The simple thought of seeing him in a tiny little room, wasting away all lonely, with spots of evolving melanoma on his face, made me feel like my heart was being crushed by John Cena or some insanely strong bodybuilder.
I can’t see him like that, because it hurts. I realize that he is probably hurting, too, and that it’s a lot worse for him than it is for me, but this is where my selfishness weasels into the picture. This 87 year old Marine, WWII veteran with a heart of gold and a feisty personality, has lived longer than his son, and has lost two wives; both to cancer. Now, he has a daughter-in-law, my mom, who sees him when she can.
But he is old and confused, and asks many questions which stresses her out, and she’s already ended up in the hospital due to the health problems that plain stress has caused her. She tries, though, which is more than I can say for myself.
And he has me, a granddaughter, who refuses to see him, because I’m afraid and I hate feeling sad and broken, although I feel that way quite often.
On a side note, I have not yet written a will, and if this story of mine is found before I get the chance and I am older than 50 years old, please just put me out to pasture, as my dad would say. I hear people say, especially couples, that they dream of growing old together, being in rocking chairs on a porch, reminiscing about their old times. And then, they die. Romantic? No. More like unrealistic.
That never happens. Someone always dies first. With my grandpa, it was both of his wives. With my grandma on my dad’s side from his first marriage, it was her husband. With my grandma on my mom’s side, her husband died first. And a year ago, with my mom, my dad bit the big one from The Big C.
I don’t happen to believe in romance, or love. I believe that the only love that truly ever existed that I’ve been able to see with my own eyes was the love my mom and my dad shared.
It’s true when they say that love doesn’t die, even though a person does. If anyone says otherwise, they are either lying, or they did not have true love. The love stays with you like some kind of patronizing plague, that slowly makes you rot on the inside. It eats away at your sanity and your heart like a parasite. It’s a tragic and horrific pain to experience, and isn’t beautiful, like some might claim.
Love doesn’t die, like I said, even though people do. And when people that you love die, it brings pain. So, the simplest solution in my opinion is to not love at all. I know, “It is better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all,” but I believe that to be complete bullshit.
I prefer to avoid pain at all costs, and have gone to extreme lengths to do so. But pain is like a stalker and just waits for you to be alone. You can try to escape it all you want, but once that temporary relief goes away, pain is right there with its creepy smile and a switchblade, ready to do some more damage.

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“What cannot be said above all must not be silenced but written.”
― Jacques Derrida

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