I Keep on Living and I Don't Know Why

So here I am, sitting here, on my armless computer Chair. I see in front of me various objects: My wallet. Containing several dollars, my up coming school year schedule,a receipt for a video game I pre-ordered, and a lot of empty space. I also see a cell phone, unused for some time. I spot crumpled papers, pencils, and an unfinished drawing.

And that drawing is a reminder of my fruit less endeavors. Every day I ponder what to create with pencil and paper. Every day I ask myself "is this worthy?". Every day I gain praise yet no benefit, self or monetary. I think big things! grand things on these blank sheets of paper…yet…those things are never grand and I often wonder why I bother. I dream that one day I could see my name, in lights, on television, and on movie or video game credits. Yet I doubt that dream will become reality.

Money was always an issue. I was born to an immigrant family, from Central America. Parents were lucky, they didn’t have much of an education but had jobs. They raised money and had their first child, their second a few years after, and a third a year after that. But we they lived comfortably. But money became tight once my condition was clear…my right leg did not grow in length automatically like the rest of my limns…no I had to experience the horrors of immense physical pain, the unsettling feeling of being in an hospital, and being mocked for my appearance.

And so begins the drain of my parents money. Thousands, maybe a million spent on their first child’s life, a life they did not want wasted. They wanted their child to grow up big and strong, they wanted him to live a life with an education, with friends, with money. But every day I felt like I was a waste of life, and of money, and I did not feel deserving of their love.

When I was younger I would feel the wrath of a judgmental society each day. Each day I would hear laughter, each day I would be called a cripple, each day I became quieter, and more unstable.

Over the years I would face agonizing physical, mental, and emotional pain until I was barely sane, maybe not sane at all.

But did it really matter? no, I guess not. Life as we all grew older settled down and this meant less pain, less mocking from my peers, and so I felt better.

But all that didn’t matter, the damage was done, people still hated me, and for what reason? I don’t know. Threw those years of pain I was formed and molded into the being I am today: Quiet, shy, afraid of new things and people, and unstable.

Sometimes I had the urge to kill, sometimes I would look at the only girl who I found preatty (Strangely I don’t find most people attractive) and hold my self back as the thoughts of lust pulled me, pushed me, it wanted me to ravage her body.

But I did not do so. Instead I hide my sexual desires and violent thoughts under a happy guy, who in truth was rather sad.

I was always lonely, sometimes I would look at couples in disgust, yet wanting what they had so badly. I once did know some one, some one I cared for so much, some one I thought would be with me forever. But one day I gave into my desires and betrayed her. And so my friend jumped, her head disfigured, her life fading.

I did not get news of this for a period of time, and when I found out I was shocked. We talked, and I realized she had permanently lost a portion of her memory, and after some false smiles I departed home and cried.

I know not whether or not it was my fault, but the guilt consumed me, I wept, I smashed, I inflicted pain upon myself. I could not stand what I had become, yet she forgave me.

That is one thing I loved about her, she was just too nice, to forgiving, but I could not forgive myself.

This helped me farther down the path of insanity, but I held on even as this plague of guilt ran through every part of my body. Things returned to normal, and she had gone off to form her own life. This saddened me for awhile but I recovered.

One day me and father find out mother never loved my father, in fact she was with another man…for 5 years. My parents departed at an early age, and my fear of them splitting was realized. I was saddened, wondering why my mother would do that…and then guilt would settle in again and I would be reminded of the same thing I had done on a soul I loved.

I continued to hold myself, but for how much longer? I did not know. Money was now tighter, we rented out the house, and for two good years we had no problems. But recently most of those men and woman had left, and my mothers attempt to lowering the mortgage rate failed. We are now stuck, we may have to sell the house…My mother was the cause of this loss of money, she never accepted financial aid from father…and still does not. I sometimes think that my dream of being an artist will never come true due to the lack of money available. And then I ponder the future and begin to hate myself again…

I am a waste of time and money, if my parents were to never bring me into this world then their money issues would be lessened…I realize that it is my life that plagues the family, and I wonder if I am even worth the space and air.

I sit here, and I draw. Drawing useless things, things that wouldn’t help any one, none of this could help us. And so I begin to escape into the world of film. I watch endless amounts of screaming and gore, gun shots, and sex, I was obsessed with horror. And so I began to draw all things horror, and by now my mental stability was brought into question.

I see my leg doctor one day, and he tells me "Do you want to do it?" referring to one final surgery! one final operations that will repair my leg! But I hesitate, and he knows all too well what this mean. He tells me I am traumatized, scarred, unstable,prone to insanity.

I keep on living, and I don’t know why.

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