The Patchwarden: Lesson One

For the first time in a while, I got up from the bed and followed Patches out to the front room.  It looked like she had been extremely busy.  Swatches and bolts were haphazardly strewn across the room, a couple half-made dresses hung from mannequins in the corners, and the loom was an unintelligible mess of thread.  Patches sheepishly peered toward my feet.  “Pardon the mess.  I haven’t exactly been as cleanly as I should have been for the last few weeks.”

I smiled and let out a heavy sigh.  “It’s okay.  I know it took a lot to keep me in one piece.  I’m just glad to be out of the bedroom.”

“You know, you spend an awful lot of time in that room for someone as strong as yourself,” Patches replied with a smirk.  “I hope this will be the last time you end up like that.”

“Me too.”

I sat down at the loom and began untangling the threads as best I could with my good hand.  Just moving my other arm would send jolts of pain running through its bones.  Patches sat down at the table and looked toward me expectantly.

“So, are you going to tell me what you did, or am I going to have to prod you for it?  It must have been something really good for the patch to still deem you worthy.”

I thought about it for a minute and gave Patches’ shoes the same look she gave mine.  “Well, primarily, I violated the Prime Tenet.  I’ve done something new, and sadly, my first thought was one of selfishness.  I understand the error of my ways, and I sincerely apologize.”

“Okay, okay, I forgive you.  It isn’t like I’m going to do anything more anyway.  You’ve already received your punishment.  But…”  Her stern look turned into one of barely-suppressed excitement.  “I still want to know what you did.”

I released a slight chuckle. “You want me to show you?”

The satin glow in her face was more than enough to oblige.  I got out my tattoo kit and began putting thread into the needle.

Why Can’t I Just Give Up?

I’m done.  I don’t want to live this shitty life any more.  I want more than anything to no longer exist.  I’m sick of it all, and I want it to be over.

So why don’t I just end it?  Suicide is so easy.  All I’d have to do is pop a bunch of my sleep meds and never wake up.  It’d even be painless.  No downside at all.

But I can’t.  I just can’t  get myself to get up and grab them, no matter how ready I am.  I can’t.

Why?  Why can’t I just end this tortuous existence that is my life?  It has no meaning, no purpose, no direction, no point.  It’s in everyone’s best interest if I didn’t exist anymore.  After the funeral and the mourning is over, it isn’t like a single thing in anyone’s life will have changed.  I’m basically already dead to my family, and although my friends would miss me, not much would really change without me being there.  Hell, I’m not sure even my boyfriend would really care in the long run.  At least with me out of the picture, there’d be one less person to worry about, one less pile of baggage to deal with.

My life has never had use, and it never will.  I might as well end the suffering now.  But I can’t.  And I probably never will.

No Point

It’s 1:30 in the morning on a Wednesday here.  I haven’t yet attempted to sleep tonight, and I probably won’t for at least another hour.  But it’s okay because I don’t have to even wake up tomorrow, let alone do anything else.

Three months ago I quit my shitty software job in Indiana to move out to California and live with my boyfriend’s family.  I left the software industry to start on what I see as my true calling in life, cooking.  More than anything, I want to learn how to be a truly great cook, open a restaurant, and actually be happy with what I’m doing with my life.  I was going to get some experience in an actual commercial kitchen environment, save up some money, and maybe go to culinary school.  My boyfriend was going to get a great job somewhere in the area, too, and between the two of us, that restaurant was going to quickly become a reality. I was going to go places, do things, be who I truly wanted to be.

And three months later, I’m no closer than I was when I left Lafayette.  I haven’t been able to get a job despite numerous interviews, and my boyfriend hasn’t even been that lucky.  I got into culinary school, but I can’t pay for it without  either of us having jobs.  My transition has been put on hold more than once because I couldn’t afford the medication.  And every day my bank account gets smaller and smaller while I still attempt to pay for the life I thought I wanted.

Three months with no glimpse of a future is hard.  Every day I wonder whether I actually made the right decision.  Was it actually worth it to leave?  Or should I have just lived with the constant depression and stress pushing me closer to the edge?  At least then I could sometimes afford a way to make myself forget about the problems.

I wonder if maybe my parents are right.  I’m deluding myself into believing there is some happiness that I can attain from pursuing my dreams.  Life just doesn’t work that way.  I should have just stayed with that plan to have my wife and two more kids than necessary in a neighborhood of good, law-abiding, god-fearing bigots going to a job that sucks my soul out bit by bit every day.

But no, I just had to be “happy.”  I had to listen to what my mind was saying about myself.  I had to go and throw away all that I had, my intelligence, my faith, my manhood.  All because of some stupid hopes and dreams that will never actually be reached.

It’s 2:11 AM on Wednesday morning, and I’m still not thinking about going to bed.  There’s no point.  Because tomorrow will be the same regardless of when I wake up.  The same disappointment, self-loathing, anger, emptiness, and lack of direction I’ve felt for the last few months, and really, the last few years.  And I don’t see any end to it, either.

Maybe I just won’t go to bed tonight.  At least then I won’t have to feel that empty hope from the start of a new day.