Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
That's what Dante says is posted up above the main entrance to Hell. I suspect it was also posted above the entrance I took into this world. I'm finally coming to grips with the fact that I've spent the last two years in an inescapable state of depression. At least. Two years of hating my life. Two years of cursing myself for waking up every morning. Two years of finding excuses not to end it. Two years of taking joy in nothing. Two years of trying to not numb the pain with weed, or booze or other distractions. Two years with as few real laughs.
This depression ended up costing me my job, as I couldn't cover it up well enough to present a happy face in a place that I went from loving to despising. Now, I can't land another. I'm either over-qualified for the jobs I know how to do or under-qualified for everything else. Because ACS and I recently moved, the few paychecks I do get from the all-too-infrequent times I am hired to do something end up being lost in the mail while the bills mount up and my bank account sinks further into the negatives. Getting ahead is impossible. There's too much water to tread any longer. Unemployment has so much red tape that by the time I get through it all, it's too late for it to make any difference. No matter how hard I try to manage my money effectively, it always bleeds dry, practically with every breath I take. No matter how well I interview, I always fail to book something that pays. As the man once said, "Basically, I'm fucked and nobody wants to work with me."
Sure, as a director I seem to be on an artistic fast-track, but even that's scant comfort. Though I was paid $500 for Brattleboro, and nominated for a BEST DIRECTOR in MITF's Short Subject category, the money ended up being mere cents per hour, for the effort I put into making it into something worthwhile. People are more than happy to ask me to direct their projects and then barely pay me at all for it. What good is being good at something when you can only do it for free?
ACS has tried valiantly to get me back on track. She's gotten me to go off of tobacco, cut my indulgences to 1/10th of what they once were, eat more healthily and occasionally even go out of the house for "fun", but it wears on her. It's too much for her to deal with me. I don't hold that against her. Frankly, if the situation were reversed, I would've had her committed by now. I think the only reason I haven't been is because, without insurance or vast amounts of money, such medically-based actions are impossible. Our new home is mere blocks away from my very first apartment in this town, and while I should feel glad, all I can think of is how far I've fallen in the last 10 years. How little I've achieved, in the final analysis. My peers, my old classmates, my friends are married, stably employed and making great inroads in their careers. Barely a day goes by that I don't see a former college classmate on TV, in commercials, or getting some award. Meanwhile, I'm not even good enough to hold down the same job I had when I first started out. I've tried so many directions, and failed in so many, that I can't even muster up the gumption to try another path.
I feel like a drain on everybody and everything that I care about. I can't afford to move out and live alone. I'd rather die that face the failure of moving back to Albany with my tail between my legs. The friends I have left are the ones that I am constantly doing things for, or the ones who want something of me, and I have nothing left to give.
Honestly, there are days that go by when the impulse to jump off the roof of my new high-rise is too strong to bear, and even the thought of the pain I'd cause my loved ones is canceled out by the fact that they'd all move on with their lives eventually and that the world -- which turned for untold ages without me upon it -- will continue and hardly notice my absence. Perhaps if I weren't the cowardly failure that I am, I'd have the courage to end it. But I am a cowardly failure, too scared of doing something "wrong" to finally take the rest that my heart yearns for.
For two years, I've been told "it gets better" or "hang in there", but those have become empty platitudes and the "help" that people offer is never enough. In the face of the world, being cared about counts for as about as much as the paper a Metrocard is printed on -- it's only good when you have the $2.50 on the card to swipe. All I can do now is continue to endure until my last project is over at the beginning of October. After that, if I finally choose to go, only three will mourn -- and their support systems are strong enough to get them through it.