In my life I go through cycles of expectations and disappointments. If I were sufficiently Buddhist I would have broken out of this endlessness and escaped into nirvana, which I speculate as a kind of suicide. But neither society nor my superego allows that. The latter, especially, puts up a commendable fight. So whenever I hit rock bottom, I revel in pseudo-nirvana for a few hours, enjoying the complete lack of attachment, and then I begin the torturous climb back up. A colloquial version of the voices in my head:
[In nirvana state]
Id: Nobody gives a shit.
Ego: You're right. And somehow I feel okay about that.
Id: That's because you don't give a shit about nobody giving a shit.
Ego: Totally. I have transcended the expectation-disappointment cycle. Wow I rock.
Superego: You guys are a bunch of anarchist lazy dipshits.
Id and Ego: Shut up.
(And the superego does shut up, for a while.)
[In post-nirvana state]
Superego: Some people do give a shit, you know.
Id: No. You lie. Nobody gives a shit.
Ego: Okay. Stop arguing. Superego, you're trying to make me expect people to care. But they don't.
Superego: That's untrue. They're only scared of you because they don't understand.
Ego: So I'm not lovable. This is doing so good for my depression.
Superego: See? Your toxic sarcasm and low expectations just positively enforces your vicious cycle. You should try trusting people sometimes. They're not all bad.
Id: That's really bad advice. Regular people are assholes. They hurt, lie, steal and betray without blinking an eye or knowing it. They're Gullivers with no strings attached. They stomp on you barely feeling the crunch of your bones.
Superego: You're really extreme.
Id: Better extreme and cautious than forgiving and tattooing a large 'kick me' sign on my back.
Ego: I think id sounds more convincing. But that also means I'll never get to enjoy a proper healthy relationship, romantic or otherwise. I'll never be able to trust, or feel like I belong anywhere, or even live with people.
Id: Ultimately, it's only you who matters. You're the one who gets all the scars.
Ego: So I either get scars or hide away forever? Are these my only options? Cutting my losses?
Superego: No. You can venture out. Start believing people may be dumb, but most of them don't intend to hurt you. And some of them will know your hypochondria and protect you from the needles of everyday life.
Ego: But how will I know which are which? Who will kill or save me? All of them have the potential for both. And every time I die I take longer to return to life, and my trust diminishes each time. How will I know?
Superego: Nobody knows. They just try. And most of the time it works out.
Ego: But so far it hasn't. So who can I believe. Hume says I shouldn't believe in "most of the time". I am desolate and lost, but no one would have mercy on me.
Superego: Because you wouldn't let them try. You have trust issues. You don't believe in the goodness of people.
Ego: Modernism doesn't either. But nobody gives them any grief.
Superego: They have their own grief. I know what you're thinking. Do not go down that plath.
Id: Why not? Rational suicide is big nowadays. And you know what? If you die, it will confirm your hypothesis. That nobody gives a shit.
Superego: That's your hypothesis actually.
Id: This is the story of your life. This is a random Thursday. At 0740 hours, you're at flag-raising, not singing like you usually do, but nobody notices, or someone notices but doesn't give a shit. At 0900 hours, your break-time, and you sit and eat alone, like you usually do. At 1015 hours, you refuse to do your Lit tutorial with your classmates, because you are too tired to pretend to be functional. Your Lit tutor implies that you are being a prude. You don't want to explain. Everybody thinks you're weird, or worse, just being yourself. At 1130 hours, you run away, to get away from the threat of ordinary people, with their carelessness and thoughtlessness. You hug your legs in a secluded corner where no one gives a shit. Later, someone tags you in a Facebook video, and to your quiet horror, you see your classmates playing a spinning game, making themselves dizzy, their laughter forever a sinister echo in your mind, while you hid, felt cold in the sunlight, and struggled to breathe. At 1200 you move like clockwork, and sit for a test, writing furiously, surrounded by puzzled classmates. At 1430 you go for a CCA meeting. At 1500 you register to donate blood, ticking "No" at the question, "Do you have any mental illnesses?" At 1515 you watch the dark red chase the length of the tube, then into the rubbery bag, frothing. You feel drained. The overhead lights are too piercing. You close your eyes. When it is done the Filipino nurse thanks you, in a bumbly accent, and leads you to the refreshment area. You taste the tang of orange juice. At 1630 you are at the high school school hall, practising Chopin's Prelude in E Minor on the grand piano, its yellowed keys like the skin of an old friend. You think about band. Your family. Friends. Acquaintances. The next day when they find your body, everyone is surprised. A classmate is quoted in the newspaper, "He was really smart, I never knew it would happen. I wished he could have talked to us." Another: "He should have taken it easy." The headline is, "Brilliant student takes his own life." There are some speculation about the causes - overperformance stress? sexual confusion? family problems? - and a schoolwide counselling system takes place. Civic tutors ask, Are you alright? as a standard greeting. Most people are annoyed. Your mother, with her sad, dumpy figure, stares at your funeral picture. For a week, some of your closer friends keep a candle burning at the place you used to sit, a flickering flame to light the nights. One of them blogs, "I hate him." And a few weeks on, only an extra name on the register they have yet to change.
***
And then the voices stop. Tutors talk to me. I confess my insecurities. I talk frankly about what kind of person I am. Some people do give some kind of shit about my life. I apologize for ignoring people, even though none of it is my fault. I try. I collect all the goodwill I can, squeezing them into a small brick, which I step on, hoping to see more light up the abyss. And I start expecting again. A fetus of hope gestating in my heart, destructible by a single breath, waiting for birth or miscarriage.
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