Loopy, Lonely and Lost

When I was in Year 7, my form group did this thing, where you write your name on a piece of paper, and pass it to the person next to you. Then, with every piece of paper you get, you look at the name and write a complimentary word or phrase about that person, and pass it along. Eventually, your piece of paper comes back to you, and it’s covered in a list of all the good things about you.

There must have been 20-something ideas on that piece of paper. About half of them said some variation on “funny”, the other half “clever”.

Eleven years old and I’d already narrowed down my personality to two traits. And I was so sure of myself, back then. I glanced at the list, felt a little thrill that people had actually written anything at all, and then felt vaguely disappointed that no-one had said anything new. I hadn’t learnt anything about myself: the adjectives that people used to describe me were the adjectives people always used to describe me and, if I could be sure no-one was going to call me arrogant, they were the words I’d use to describe myself, too.

But still: at the time, and for years afterwards, it was enough. Maybe it would still be enough, if only it was true.

I don’t make people laugh anymore. I mean, sometimes they laugh at me, or out of pity, or because I’m churning out over-used old jokes in an attempt to avoid engaging with the conversation. But I don’t feel quick, or witty, and I don’t feel like anything I say is new or original or side-splittingly hilarious, like it used to feel back when I knew how to deal with people.

And today – it’s today now, already past midnight – I’m going to find out my degree results, and prove once and for all that “clever”‘s a misnomer too.

There were two good things about me, and they’ve faded away. I suppose that means that either I’m horrible, or I’m nothing.

Such a simple, two-dimensional personality, and it’s gone. What little character I had has faded away, and the empty shell that remains is hardly even human.

Every time I relax my mind, I see my death. Vivid and violent, myriad methods and endless, excruciating detail. Images bursting unwanted into my head, indelible traces etched on to my mind. I think my brain is probably trying to tell me something. Make a point.

I hear it loud and clear, of course. I don’t know what the immediate future will bring, but I know that if I decide to die, my absence will be an unimaginably small dent in the world. About the size of my presence.