Break Free & Be Broken (5 page)

Bravo, Mr. Reaper. You've claimed my flesh. I’m finally ready to fall.

Nothing is ever good enough. Nothing is ever enough. I'm sick of this. All of it. My days, my nights, my body, my mind. The working, the distracting, the eating and breathing. The struggle to be someone, to do great things. The fucking pressure to do well and succeed, to make something of a someone who by all rights should be a no one... it's too much. I've been failing at it all anyway, so why the fuck am I still here? Have I not witnessed enough of myself and my capabilities to know that I can never change: never win? And if I can't, then what's the point of any of this? What is my fucking goal? What do I think I will find at the end of this wretched life that will possibly make the struggle worthwhile?

I just... I can't fight forever. If I knew that in the end it would all be worth it, then maybe. But life gives no such promise, and the glimpses I have seen of the future show that the worst is yet to come. Do I really expect there to be peace once I'm old? Not likely. I've seen the lonesome infirmity that comes of old age. I've witnessed the sadness and decay wrought by the hands of time. The only possible upside I can see to being old is that it makes you so miserable you relinquish your desire for life, thus freeing yourself from the fear of death and making it that much easier to kick the bucket. If I am already miserable now, with my strong, youthful body and razor sharp wit, imagine the depths of sorrow that will greet me as those things sicken and fade.

The underlying purpose of life is to survive. My tendency to fail has finally reached the largest scale-I am no longer capable of even that! Oh, fuck! Oh, woe is me! Sharp sobs rattle my ribs and box my throat, causing my tears to jump and dance. I can't believe this really came! I can't believe I'm actually here: strength lost, resolve depleted, praying for the release of death! How the hell did this happen? How did I get here?

I don’t think I was this way as a child... no. I was a bright eyed rogue. I was actually happy. Life was good back then, and my dreams were as big as the world around me. I had plans, you see, plans for glory and success. Not only that, but I had faith in my ability to claim them. Everything was so open. I never doubted for a second that I could be great. Doubt didn’t exist... Failure wasn’t an option...

So when did I start to collapse?

Middle and high school were fine... if not stupid. Dumb kids doing dumb shit: the world went on. I didn’t particularly like the sacrifices required to fit in-the way people championed the clown and shunned the academic-nor did I enjoy the apelike tendencies that so many shared, but it was easy enough to ignore those things with drugs, so I made it through without too many thorns. More than anything, I was confused. I could tell that things were changing, I just couldn’t really tell in what way. All I knew was that with each passing year, I found on my tongue an increasingly bitter taste.

Graduation was something of a shock-not because I did it-but because I learned that the vast majority of people I called 'friend' were nothing more than common associates. We all just used each other for parties and drugs. It was amazing how quickly most disappeared when I wasn't forced to see them every day, but that didn't matter. Deep down I always knew we didn't really like each other. The real issue that came about after graduation was that suddenly, the big wide world was busted wide open, and it was time to choose a path, go to college, find a career! The problem: I didn't know who I was. I didn’t have a damn clue how I wanted to spend the rest of my days; I hardly had a clue what to do with my weekends. I sure as hell wasn't ready to start forging my future, so I didn't. I started floating instead.

The floating didn't last for long. There was a gold lining to the disappearance of my ‘friends.’ Unencumbered by the influence of others, the fog that was shrouding my existence began to burn up, giving me a clearer view of the world around me. I saw everything resting on a tilted track. I was sick of being young; I was sick of being dumb; but that’s all anyone seemed to know how to do. I was sunk to my knees in quicksand, and it was plain to see that I needed to find a way out and
fast
or I’d risk becoming stuck forever, so I put my mind to the task of discovering how to get free.

At first, all I knew were two things: I didn't want to do something average-I was beyond sick of the common route!- and I was angry. Hate was blossoming within me-an unexpected response to my surroundings-and that hate was stirring violence. I needed to get the hell out of where I was. I needed an escape! And that’s when I knew.

I was going to become a Navy Seal: the best of the best.

The idea was so shiny and luminous I couldn't understand how I hadn't thought of it before. Everything about it was perfect! It was a path on which I could max out my potential and be the best I could be, a path that could provide me with relief from the murderous anger I wore like a skin, and best of all, it was a path out: a way to sidestep the mold that was growing around me.

Having decided, the first order of business was to train. I wanted to ensure I was ready for the rigorous sorting process one has to go through to reach the top tier of the United States Special Forces before I joined-I was not going to try only to fail!- so I decided to take a year to prepare.

It was the best year of my life.

I became absolutely and completely dedicated to the cause of excellence. Improvement and growth were my only concerns, and I chased them down with wild abandon. I became a ghost to the world and I loved it. Left free to my own devices, I managed to accomplish more in that year than any other period of my life. I was healthy! I was fit! I was physically and mentally strong! By the time I was ready to join, I was a new man.

When I went in to talk to the recruiter, I told him straight up I had a messy past. On top of the drug use I participated in, I also had some legal trouble, including a felony. I was 15 when it happened, but I was still nervous about it. The recruiter waved my concerns aside, telling me that honesty was the best policy and to lay it all on the table, so that's exactly what I did. I was assured that if I did well on all the entrance tests it would be no problem getting me in. I trusted those words. I scored above perfect on the fitness test, in the 94th percentile on the written, and, since I was absent of even a single health issue, I blew past the physical with flying colors. To put it modestly, I was overqualified.

It wasn't enough. The day came to get my contract and I was informed that the Navy wasn't currently accepting anyone with 'serious misconduct.' There just wasn't enough going on, they told me. 'Come back if there's a war.'

I'll never forget the fat, four eyed piece of shit getting his contract the same day. I tested with the mother fucker. He was weak, unmotivated, and dumb as a fucking rock, yet the Navy considered him a more worthy candidate than me. In their eyes, he was my superior.

In that moment, I learned something about life; something I never, ever,
ever
wanted to learn: dreams are only for sleep.

I fucking floundered.

As lost as I'd ever been and in dire need of relief, I plunged myself back into the world, only to be sickened by the stench of it. Nothing had changed. Everyone was still doing the same shit we were doing in high school-same parties, same people, same places-only now those things had wrinkled and grayed. I couldn't stand what I was seeing. Where was the greatness? Where were the pinnacles of human achievement? What happened to passions? To dreams? I wanted to grab each person I saw and shake them until they grew wings. I didn't need to see someone fly so I could grab onto their coattails, I just needed to see someone fly.

I soon learned that my time spent pursuing excellence had placed a curse upon my head. My standards had been raised to an impossible level, and I was no longer able to bring them back down. I had seen the top of the mountain and experienced a taste of greatness-I knew it was an obtainable thing-and even though I was no longer near the top, I still judged the world and myself from that place. I began to develop a deep disdain for those around me. All that I saw was detestable.

Weak. Everyone was fucking weak, and they were slaves to that weakness: slaves to desire! There were only whores where there should have been women and only pussies where there should have been men. I scratched my eyes raw as I watched them mush into shit roles, passively letting their lives drain away into a stew of mediocrity... and I, too, was a part of it.

God, I hated it.

God damn, I fucking hated it.

The fact I was involved in the same shit didn't give me a sympathetic eye. At least I was honest about my reasons. I had tried to reach the sun and was burnt to a crisp. I had failed. My strength and motivation were lost. I was doing what I did because I was crushed and defeated, hiding from pain!- doing the only things I could think of to survive. Everyone else was acting like it was still the cool, fun thing to do. I couldn't take the dishonesty.

'Get used to it,' I told myself. 'This is just how life is.' Oh yeah? According to whom? Who decided that average is an acceptable goal? Show me that fucking person. SHOW THEM TO ME! Let me cave in their skull and show you the blackness that’s within...

Oh, how I was lost. My time back in the world was short lived. I couldn't handle being so exposed to the basic nature of humanity. I stayed out just long enough to find my heroine. Once in the throes of her embrace, I retreated back to the pit that was my self. I found a bit of comfort there: alone. Sure, it hurt. I hurt every day, but at least I'd found a rhythm I could shuffle my feet to until death.

I was content in my misery; that is... until She came.

Why did She have to be so beautiful... HUH!? Why the FUCK did She have to be so beautiful, gentle, and sweet? I had already given up on love when I met Her. I was fine just being alone! I may have been miserable, but it was an ignorant misery-one that I could bear! I knew right away that getting close to Her would only cause trouble. I knew there would be pain. She didn't know of my weakness or the darkness that haunted my mind. She didn't understand the impossible standards to which I held myself and the world. But I knew. I knew the hardships of living with me, and I fucking warned Her. I tried to just be friends!

Perhaps She didn't believe someone could really live with such vast stores of pain, or maybe She believed She could help me get better... Whatever the reason, She ignored my shouts to beware. Bless Her heart, She ignored me, and opened my eyes to the profound glory of the angel called Love.

Fucking bitch.

Why did She have to make me so damn happy? Why did She have to be so fucking great!? She was far, far too good to me. I never deserved to be treated so well, with such kindness: such loving grace! Somehow, She made me believe the world wasn't the pitch black place I’d come to believe it to be. Somehow, She gave me hope. Wrapped in Her arms, blanketed by the warmth of Her love, I foolishly started to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could get better.

She was everything to me, and once I was convinced She could help me, I opened the floodgates to the deepest reaches of my pain. How could I not in the face of such pure love? I didn't know it would sweep Her away. After all, it was SHE!- who said we were soul mates. It was SHE!- who promised that with Her, my heart would always be safe. She assured me that She could handle all the broken parts of me...

She was wrong.

I'll never forget the torment of watching Her come to terms with the reality that I couldn't be helped; that somewhere along the line, I had been exhausted beyond repair. It broke Her heart.

It destroyed mine.

I was distraught that my weakness was bringing Her pain. I couldn't hurt Her... not Her, not my precious love! So what could I do? There was no chance that I could leave-I loved Her infinitely too much!- but She had to get away. I was a stone destined to sink, and since I couldn't allow myself to take Her with me, I did the only thing I could think of. I started breaking myself against the walls of our love that I now saw as a cage.

That sweet, silly girl. She fought tooth and nail for me. The more I yanked and pulled against my self-imposed chains, the more She tried to soothe me. And me? I just kept pulling, creating more and more distance between us, leaving Her alone to sort out what the hell was happening. The hurt, confused look that became permanently etched in Her eyes still burns me. The more I hurt Her, the more it hurt me, and the more I hurt, the more hurt I had to give. I knew I could outlast Her. I was used to suffering: it was a part of me. She had no idea how to navigate such deep trenches of pain, and finally, in a fit of sorrow, desperation, and tears, She escaped.

For some fucked up reason, I was shocked. I don't think I ever really expected Her to go, and I was annihilated entirely when She did. My weakness demanded I try to get Her back. She didn't come. The emptiness I was left with was worse than anything else I had ever felt. With nothing else to fill it, I filled it with hate: hate for Her. I had no other choice. Hating Her was the only thing that kept me hunched upright against the massive weight of missing Her.

To this day, I hate Her. I hate Her for stealing my best friend from me. I hate Her for opening my eyes to love and filling me with false hope. I hate Her for all the misplaced kindness She ever showed me. But most of all...