I guess there might be some correlation between doubting your faith and becoming miserable.
I can see how this can be told as an example to those who still believe.
I used to think that someone with faith can never doubt, because something so true cannot be confused. I rejected the examples I was told, because once the Truth is found, it cannot be lost, and those who have lost their faith must have never really been faithful.
Honestly, I never feel more worthless than when I observe the similarity of humans to animals, when I think of intelligence as simply an added useful thing. And I have never felt more secure than when I saw humans and animals as completely different. When Heaven gave every reason to be alive, and Hell gave every reason to be good.
I prayed, not expecting an answer, but for the general good. I was the only animal in a room full of blessed beings, and I was envious. I felt expelled like the Devil.
Late at home, my eyes red from the lack of sleep. I do feel like the devil. But I am human and I am weak, and if you exist and if you have any mercy then I beg you to be merciful.
If it was by merit, then I cannot complain. If it was by chance, then I cannot complain.
But I guess the question becomes: what if it was by merit, and my merit was assigned to me by chance?
Hope, or the list of things I do not consider impossible.
My analysis of that list does not exceed noting that they’re possible at any time that isn’t now.
There is a limit, though, when there are enough writings, and enough memories. There can be too many possibilities and too many possible times.
Persistence, or grit.
We were solid as a rock. Emotionless as a rock. Expressionless as a rock.
Only immense heat and pressure could make something so solid yet so dull.
As the sun rises, as I see the skin of my hands, as it gets more and more difficult to fall asleep, it pains me to realize that today is not the day. I am keeping count, you see, on the wrinkles of my skin.
I’ve hoped for so long, and I am starting to doubt.
I looked in the mirror, and all the ungroomed hair that covered my head and face couldn’t hide who I was, and it couldn’t hide the resemblance to my two uncles.
I used to think that something went wrong somewhere, and it led me to this. But I’m starting to see that this man in front of me is exactly how the child I was could grow.
An average of two extremes, but even every commendable achievement was earned for the wrong reasons.
I was terrified of becoming like my uncle, of quitting everything I have and simply living to die.
Then I remembered what my grandfather said.
Yes, I may avoid my uncle’s life, but it is equally terrifying to live a difficult life only to provide an excuse. It is equally terrifying to punish myself for their evil genes.
As if I was born undeserving of life that the meaning of my life became to justify it.
As if the limit of my life’s meaning is to push myself as far away from the evil extreme, so that the likes of my grandfather can describe me as “OK.”
Grandfather, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I want you to know that I have never hated anyone in my life as much as I hate you today.
“Why don’t you go inside and eat with others?” That’s what my uncle asked. He saw my habit of eating on the stairs outside because I wanted to be by myself.
Even in college, the many times I ate on the stairs of buildings.
“He’s always like that, even at home.” My father used to tell people, sometimes even those we meet for the first time. As if something was so visibly wrong that he had to explain.
I started writing only after I have read so much in middle school. When I hid everyday in the individual cubicles in the library.
At the hospital, where we woke up at 6 and went to bed at 6, I revisited my favorite hobby of reading.
The more I remember of my past, the more likely it seems. Things have a better explanation now.
Things like the girl whose shoulder I burned with a wire hanger trying to approach her when I was 10 years old (funny that we were visiting my grandparents at the time).
Things like molesting another student in elementary school when I didn’t even know much.
Things that were only tolerable because I was “gifted”. It was the reason I was allowed in society, the excuse for my life.
Today, my thick folder of transcripts and acknowledgments shares the room with many empty medication bottles. Nothing gives me more pride and more humiliation than seeing my name written as the recipient of praise and pity.
How sickening to live as an average of two extremes.
He died in a car, but not in a car accident, and he made amends soon before it. Not many people ask more about it.
His younger brother, the cool uncle that played video games with me, quit his job and lives with my grandmother. Every time we visit, he shows up with long ungroomed hair and yellow teeth. It doesn’t take more than 5 minutes of talking with him to know he isn’t completely sane.
Their father, my grandfather, has died a few years ago. I remembered something he said and it frightened me today.
We were three sitting, my grandfather, my father, and I. I was about 14-16 years old. They were talking for a while, then they stopped.
My grandfather stared at me for a moment, then he looked towards my father and said in a low voice: “the kid, his mind is not right.” My father looked at him but said nothing.
I fear that history tells me that there are two possible outcomes. Which of my uncles lives are less pitiful?