All of this is bullshit. That's what I've realized over the past few days. I have nothing to fear, no reason to be stressed, because none of this really effects me.
In the past I felt suicidal, losing my will to live because of all the stress laid down on me, all the worthless crap piled onto my back, and all I could think of was me ending it all. As a matter of fact, I planned to have my last journal entry be a suicide note (but you know, not really), to be 'accidentally' sent to all my teachers to send them a message that I am stressed out, and when someone is stressed out as much as I am, what are they going to turn to? What will they do to cope? And I wanted to write a moving suicide note in order to send that message, that one with no likelihood of ever taking a knife and ending their lives can be driven to do exactly that, driven to something that would earn quite a few lawsuits, some educational reform. I know if I killed myself, over half my school would gasp in shock, all my friends would drop their pencils in horror, that guy. That one guy. The guy who always made everyone laugh, the guy who was a friend to all and eager to spread wisdom wherever appreciated and could cheer everyone up, couldn't do so for himself. It was too much, and though he always preached against suicide, eventually that was his only alternative. He had nowhere else to turn, and so my suicide note, my oh so moving suicide note, might attract attention, my cold dead voice would be heard, and change would occur, the curriculum being made a little bit less stressful in order to prevent future suicides (because AISD naturally rolls over on command), "all the cash, all the fame, and social change".
I could've channeled my inner depression and wrote an emotional suicide note, able to bring tears in some, as I would simply break my poetic style, talking in simple honest words, no more bullshit, just a plain suicide note, describing exactly why I was driven to it, and what I want to be done in my absence (also a declaration of love to my crush, identifying her by name, something I deliberately haven't done).
Such could've been an emotional weapon, such could've been a mighty cry for attention that couldn't be ignored, even by people who might not even know me. I could've written that, and immediately been paid attention to (because adults in the education system seem to have an interesting fascination with the topic of teen suicide). In fact, I still want to write it, but I know I can't now, not because I'm no longer in the situation to be depressed, but because I'm no longer depressed, even though I have every reason to be.
As you all surely know by now, I don't write with my mind, but with my heart. I surround myself with my specific emotion as dictated by the tone of the day, I let it overcome me, build up inside me, until there's only one way I can release it: writing. I can't write my suicide note, even if just for shits and giggles, because I can't overload myself with depression. All I figure I am is lovesick, not enough to merit depression, let alone suicide. I no longer am depressed, and cannot write about depression as a result, all I do feel is blatant carelessness.
I care nothing for my stressful sophomore curriculum, I am who I want to be. I cannot be pushed down by my school, because I'm no longer afraid to voice my opinions publicly. I cannot be depressed by assignments that I'll openly say that I don't have because I didn't give a shit about them. I am Meursault, my indifference resulting in my depression, my slow transition through my hellish, dismal state until finally, finally, I have lashed out at the chaplain within my mind, I have slept and awoken a new man, begotten a new Meursault, one who accepts the pitiful reality of my world. I scare myself somewhat, knowing I care not about my future, that I could flunk out of school, given if I fail two classes, I would get kicked out of my magnet school, one of the places I know I belong. I don't care still. My apathy strengthens itself every day, maybe in a short while to the point where I can ask my crush out, but that won't be for a week or so. I am paranoid about the consequences of my apathy, even though deep down I no longer care what whiplash befalls me. I know it is too late for me to get any sort of help, perhaps I could've back when I was depressed, but not anymore. Surprisingly, I was comfortable back when I was depressed, even though now when I no longer care I feel content. I can still put on the act, the illusion of caring, for I find it easy to feign interest in anything. I am something I always wanted to be, and yet feared to become, and my very rational fear is dying by the day, fear of what I now am and that I no longer care for certain things I once deemed crucial. I don't care for this bullshit anymore. Life is mine, and though I fear the results of my new-found confidence, I care not.
I say to anyone who may be listening, be comfortable with this new me, because I doubt I shall regress to my previous self. I am a new Meursault, and I can only hope that I shall be greeted with cries of hate.
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