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I’ve always been homesick whenever I left.
If I went on vacation with my friends or leave my mom for over 4 days I’d miss home so much that I’d feel sick, feel the emptiness in my heart ache because I’d just miss the simple things that made my house a home.
“I’d miss my bed and my cat and my teal blanket and my mom,” I’d think. “definitely my mom.”
And as I move back into my old house, I think, is this really what I wanted? The structure that holds me and my mom, my family now, it is just a house. As I grow up I keep on hoping that it’ll feel right again, feel like it did when I was little, but nothing can bring back the comfort of your bedroom once it’s gone. 9 becomes 10, and that becomes 13 and then 16, and then you start to wonder if you wasted what little time you had being small and delicate on wanting to grow up.
I wonder if I wasted that time by being an asshole, by being the piece of shit I am today, but I think if I was different then I wouldn’t be me. But then that makes me think, where do I draw the line of being terrible to people and just my overall personality? Everyone always says: “Don’t change yourself for other people, be who you are because you’re special!”. But what if who I am hurts everyone, what do you do then? I still want to be me, I don’t wanna change completely because then, who even am I? But if the person I am hurts people, then what am I supposed to do? Be someone else?
Maybe that’s just the way it is. We are horrible because we are selfish and I am selfish because I’m a narcissist, right? At least, that’s what everyone says behind my back, I bet. Maybe being terrible is my personality, what do I do then?
“What if it was never enough?” I ask myself. All these years of raising yourself up, telling yourself “you’re the best” “you’re the greatest” “you’re the only one who deserves good things, and everyone else can suck it, they’re just steppingstones to your success.” when really you don’t want to admit that you’re only saying that because you think the world revolves around you. You think you’re the best because you are the worst, and that can never change.
And it’s the hate that bleeds out of me, into my home, that makes it feel like just a house. It is my fault that I am dependent on the people I hurt. It is under my control when I ruin lives including my own. Not everything is about me, I know that now.
The amount of hate I’ve created can never be made fully right. I can try, but I know that I’ll still have the reputation, the dirty looks, and the newspaper articles, so what’s the point? And I’ll read that newspaper, over and over until I get a paper cut, and then I’ll think “Do I deserve it?”. “Do I deserve the pain? This is how everyone else feels when I talk to them. My life is shit because I deserve it, right?”
It frustrates me to no end, because no matter how fucked up I am in the head, no matter how many “bad things” have happened to me, I don’t deserve any sympathy! I don’t ever deserve pity, and I don’t want it either.
I can never make it up, and I’ll never be forgiven. And you know what? Whatever. When I live I create havoc, but when I die, well, I disappear. And then everyone will sit at my funeral and say those things that I know aren’t true. “He was a good man.” “He will be missed.” “He is one of heavens angels now.” No! Don’t you get it?! That not what I am.
But that time isn’t here yet, is it? I bet that some people wish it were.
I don’t want to hate myself. From everyone’s perspective it just seems like my narcissistic personality is manifesting into hating who I am instead of worshipping it, or expecting others to do so as well. But I can’t help it. I can’t help but despise this boy, who I am, because he is someone that is incapable of love, incapable of compassion, only in it for him, for me, and I wish that wasn’t true.
Even this letter. Even this probably seems to you, whoever is reading this, that I’m just seeking attention, trying to get a reaction, but I’m not, I promise, as much as my promise is worth to anyone. I don’t want to be like this. I want a different life. I want to look different, to feel different, to be different. I want to lift somebody up, I want to make someone happy, but I can’t do that if I’m me.
I’m unchanging, I’m annoying, I’m selfish, I’m stupid, but I’m me. All of those bad qualities make me who I am, and I hope I have some good in there, somewhere? I hope that somebody sees that tiny sparkle of truth in me, that they believe me when I say I’m so, so sorry.
Not everything is black and white, good and bad. Heroes are somewhat self absorbed because they save people and their ego inflates to the point of no return, and villains, well, it’s a little more complex, but a lot of them, I’m sure only want to be loved, to love. I hope that someone can see that in me. See that I’m not all bad, or at least, I hope I’m not. I know nobody will, but I can still hope, right?
I’m still me, and part of me finds comfort in that, in some strange way. Like, even if everyone leaves me, at least I’ll still have myself, right?
And that brings me back to home. Being at home, where I am now, where I sit and write about my stupid feelings. I only write because I know nobody will listen, I know nobody will give me a chance and hear me out, to be fair, they probably shouldn’t. No one, not even myself, will ever think that I’m capable of making something that matters, that could change something. Like I said, I want to make someone, anyone happy. Just once, that’s all I want.
That’s all I want.
Thanks for reading, I guess. Future me, my mom, my kids maybe… fucking Kyle. God, if Kyle is reading this, I hate you dude, go away.
No, no, not really. I love you, whoever is reading this (Even if it’s Kyle). I hope this got through to you that I don’t want to be a monster, even if I am one now. And I hope that I can change something, even if it’s small.
I love you, stranger. I hope you’re picking up what I’m putting down.
See you soon.
— Eric Cartman