Diary of a Wandering Corpse

I don’t think we have free will. I think that all we are is a byproduct of deterministic causes. I can’t seem to break out of my own causes. I don’t expect other people to, either. I am just not okay with how the world is. I am not okay living in a patriarchal society. I am not okay with being mistreated all the time by men. I am sick of the world, I am sick of being nothing more than a cog in this giant, humiliating machine, I am sick of myself.

I feel like a wandering rotting corpse. I am already dead, and what is left is this piece of meat, fresh enough to play with, pick and prod, but not alive enough to be seen as human. I feel like I am trying to pass as a human. On bad days, I feel like there are worms clawing their way out of my greying flesh. On good days, I feel like a pretty, inorganic doll; I don’t smell, I don’t rot, my makeup is sealant-sprayed and perfectly intact. I just hope that they didn’t see my resin eyes, ball-jointed and string-attached limbs.

I want someone to hold my hand and remind me that I’m human. That they see me as human. I often feel like an object, a plaything, a doll, a corpse. I want someone to tell me that I am loved, without it ending with, “but not by me.” I’m aware this reeks of desperation and a lack of self-respect. It’s a funny picture, corpses having self-respect. “I want you to respect me!” says the corpse with worms coming out of its eyes.

Mom, if you are reading this, I want to let you know that I love you more than anything in the world. I’m sorry that I often fail to show this. Recently, I’ve realised that I’ve been a burden to you. I know how hard you try to provide a good life for your daughters, and I’m sorry that I have not been able to make the best out of that. I see you work hard, from the moment I was born until now, to make sure we grow up to be successful and happy. I’m sorry I failed at that, even with all your efforts.

I think a lot about taking my own life, so as not to burden you anymore. I realised that no matter how hard I try, how many meds I take and therapy I go to, I seem to be stuck in the same spot, running around in circles without end. I feel like no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get better. I feel permanently unlovable, and the pain is so strong and feels so hopeless that I see no other alternative than the path I am on now.

Oftentimes I also feel so angry at the world, for how poorly it treats us, but I also see strength in how you handle them. You are really strong, and it is my wish growing up that one day, I can become as strong as you. I’m sorry.

In truth, I’m tired of my own rot. I’m tired of having been decaying for ages. Other people, who at first have tried to embalm me and preserve what is left of me, now grow tired of their Sisyphean efforts. I know you are tired too, Mom. I’m sorry. I feel dead, dead, dead. I lost my way amidst my journey back from the world of the dead.

It was as if I saw some explicable truth about the world that I couldn’t accept. And now I see this unacceptable thing everywhere, permeating every interaction with other humans, which makes me not want to engage with them. Being too cognizant of the darker side of human nature is akin to having your pupils permanently enlarged so that your eyes sear at everything you see. The act of perceiving becomes too painful.

Maybe I should stop trying to avoid this corpse-like existence. The only thing that makes me momentarily happy is engaging in a solitary activity that serves some vaguely positive purpose, without needing me to engage too much with the world. Perhaps, being a corpse is not all that bad. I am perfectly content, being a corpse, tending to the flowers of the living.

—

This post was previously published on Celine Hosea‘s blog.

***

You Might Also Like These From The Good Men Project

Compliments Men Want to Hear More Often

Relationships Aren’t Easy, But They’re Worth It

The One Thing Men Want More Than Sex

..A Man’s Kiss Tells You Everything