The Boy Who Lived
by Noise Pollution
You may have read my earlier post about my experience living through a house fire. If not, go read it.
I’ve always felt weird about living through something like that. Like, I’m supposed to be grateful, right? I’m supposed to be happy that I survived.
I’m not happy.
I’m miserable. I’m a fucking wreck. I’m on six different medications. (Yes, it went up.) I am depressed. I am anxious. Sometimes, I get so anxious that I can’t handle being around myself or anyone else. It becomes too stressful to think, or breathe, or do fucking anything.
But I’m alive right now. I’m lucky right? I survived third-degree burns, and even managed to get away without scars on my face. I should be fucking hopping around, all of the time. I should have an incredible appreciation for life, instead of this disturbing obsession with death.
I don’t fucking get it. Why am I even alive if I was just going to go on to do nothing? Why did I come away so clean? I’m a failure. I’m a fuck-up. I’m a mess. I’m a mess who survived when I shouldn’t have. Why didn’t I die? I’m not worth anything to society. I’m practically a deadbeat. I’m practically dead.
What is wrong with me?