Depressing Weekend: Existentialist Nirvana | Theland E. Thomas

Atheists are the only ones who reach Nirvana because when they die, the cycle ends. When the rest of us die, we all go somewhere else. Heaven for some, Hell for most. God and the Devil lay in wait like bogeymen under the bed. But atheists, they learned the trick: If you don't believe, they can't get you.

Do you often stifle the urge to scream? Do you ever feel that sinking, hollow feeling in your gut? That churning dread? That brooding storm? Do you ever look out the window and want to jump right through it? Are you ever tempted to keep the wheel straight at a bend in the road? Do you struggle to hold your head up? Do you collapse when no one's around? When you're alone, are you plagued? By profound heaviness? By unforgivable guilt? Aren't you tired? Don't you just want some rest? Don't you want to fall asleep and never wake up?

This is partly a confession, partly an experiment to see who’s really listening.

Shadows lurk in every crevice. They've been watching me my entire life. They swarmed and crept from the corners, slithered and hissed, and when I was spooked, pulled the sheets over my eyes. They whispered in my ears until they crawled right in. Satan has been on my shoulders the entire time. His claws cleft wounds in my back, constantly reopening, oozing. His words contaminated my thoughts, painted them all black, built stumbling blocks and tore gaping holes in my mind through which I fell over and over again. I felt his hands weighing down my eyelids, constricting my neck, dragging me lower still. Like a puppet master, he planned my days, coordinated my steps, set up every moment. Like an imp he brought the memories to circle me. He brought the depression and negativity. He brought the inescapable pain. He pushed and crushed me. And when I couldn’t take it anymore, he guided my hands as I tied the noose. He lifted my head through it, and kicked the stool from under me. Choking, gagging, sputtering I kicked, flailed. Suddenly, I remembered: I didn’t want to die! He jumped giddily, clapping, laughing. Hot pressure pounding in my head. Throat crushing suffocation. Fuzzy, black splotches…..

Blasphemy against the Holy Spirit is the only unforgivable sin, and there is no greater blasphemy than rejecting it until death. I remembered this as I descended into Hell.

Shh! It's okay. It's okay. Everything is alright. Just calm down. Take a few deep breaths. Relax. It's okay. You can get through this. Another damn day. You got through yesterday, didn't you? You can get through this one too. Just a few hours until lunch. Just a few hours until you're free to go home. Just a few lonely hours filling the void. Staying up to avoid sleep. Don't want to sleep. Yawning cavern, pouring rain, drowning, suffocating -- No -- Wait! Don't think that! Turn the corner. Think of something else. Something funny. Don't cry. Don't feel that! After all, tomorrow, another damn day awaits.

They said to me, You’re in a really dark place right now. I said, No, I’ve always been there, I just never had the courage to write it down. But when I’m alone I admit that it has gotten worse.

It’s always going to be like this.

Isn’t it?

There’s no amount of anything that can fix it.

Is there?

There is something broken deep down inside of me,

so far down,

I can’t even see it.

  G a p i n g  h o l e . . .

Festering wound.

Dark emptiness.

I’m not the only one. There are lots of us out there. Some go on living normal lives, smiling, pretending to love, functioning like normal human beings. No one knows the truth, and they keep the secret hidden in their hearts. Others hide it from themselves. In drugs, booze, late night parties. They don’t want to know. They don’t want anyone to know. Some of us can’t even get out of bed. Some of us struggle to function. Many of us are already dead. Me? I’m not that bad yet. But everyone knows there’s something wrong with me. I’m just a little weird. Just a little too cynical. Just a little aromantic. I think a lot about how people would react were I to end it. Many of them would say, I had a hunch.

My neck. In the morning, there is a sinking feeling as I wrap the necktie around my throat for yet another day. It’s so handsome to slowly choke to death. The uneasiness comes from the awareness that it would be so easy to just keep tightening. A morbid fascination. In the day, I pull my shirt away from my throat. It’s suddenly too tight. I’m suddenly winded, lightheaded. I just need a minute. I just need a year. Everyday, I’m digging, sinking lower all the time. I’ve gone so far down, the soil just falls back and buries me. If I can just make it through this day. If I can just make it through this year. If I can just make it through this life, then what?