XehanortXIII
Member
I'm an atheist who, much like Ricky Gervais and Neil DeGrasse Tyson, only really believes in factual evidence. There were way too many moments in my life where I believed things at either face value or based on my personal faith in something - call it God at one point, "the Universe", my exes or even myself - and because of it I was punished. With extreme prejudice. I've come to learn the hard way that things are only actually real if they're backed up by solid evidence. Facts, which cannot be denied by anybody - not even myself. After all, Facts do not care about your feelings, personal beliefs, emotions, your mood during that particular day or the next... They do not care about your biases or traumas, about your past, present or future. Facts are what they are. We can either accept them and move on, or continue to reject them pointlessly, only to be faced with reality like a truck with no breaks is faced with a wall.
Taking that into consideration... No matter how much I believe this is the right way to go about your life, I'm still suffering. Because if there's anything I've collected enough factual evidence for... Is how unlovable, unattractive and insignificant I am. Across my 29 years living in this world, I've collected way too many negative descriptions of my physique (no matter if I'm thin, fat, long-haired or short-haired, if I dress formally or casually, if I take care of myself or not), and have been friend zoned on sight far too many times. Things have happened to me with women that, when I talk about them, people often feel like I'm describing an overly dramatic soap-opera. One of my best friends (a gay woman) is always in shock to hear how my interactions with women go. She struggles to accept that women can behave this way - being a woman herself.
So I've come to a point in my life where I can't believe things are ever going to get better. Ever. Not out of "negativity" or "pessimism" or "sadness" or "depression". Yes, I suffer from those symptoms. But they're not the ones acting as the core of this belief... Facts are. Undeniable facts. The mathematical absurdity of my situation that even sends my female friends into a confused frenzy out of not being able to explain it themselves can only be explained in one way: I was simply not born to be loved, attractive or significant. Not even my own mother wanted me to be born, and as she constantly demonstrated it during my years being her target of abuse (yes, even that one), she hated that I was alive, she regretted that I had been born to her.
The worst part about this fight my father wants me to win is that it can't be won. This enemy can't be beat. You can't beat facts with fiction. You can't beat reality with imagination. At the end of the day no matter how much I try to smile and be happy to be alive... The reality of the situation is shown to me by the darkness of my sunless room, the emptiness of my bed, the scars left in my heart, and the words from all the women I've loved echoing in my head... Reminding me that they are much, much better without me. Everybody is.
So perhaps... Perhaps I should've died. Perhaps I am better off dead. No... Not "perhaps". I certainly am better off dead.
Taking that into consideration... No matter how much I believe this is the right way to go about your life, I'm still suffering. Because if there's anything I've collected enough factual evidence for... Is how unlovable, unattractive and insignificant I am. Across my 29 years living in this world, I've collected way too many negative descriptions of my physique (no matter if I'm thin, fat, long-haired or short-haired, if I dress formally or casually, if I take care of myself or not), and have been friend zoned on sight far too many times. Things have happened to me with women that, when I talk about them, people often feel like I'm describing an overly dramatic soap-opera. One of my best friends (a gay woman) is always in shock to hear how my interactions with women go. She struggles to accept that women can behave this way - being a woman herself.
So I've come to a point in my life where I can't believe things are ever going to get better. Ever. Not out of "negativity" or "pessimism" or "sadness" or "depression". Yes, I suffer from those symptoms. But they're not the ones acting as the core of this belief... Facts are. Undeniable facts. The mathematical absurdity of my situation that even sends my female friends into a confused frenzy out of not being able to explain it themselves can only be explained in one way: I was simply not born to be loved, attractive or significant. Not even my own mother wanted me to be born, and as she constantly demonstrated it during my years being her target of abuse (yes, even that one), she hated that I was alive, she regretted that I had been born to her.
The worst part about this fight my father wants me to win is that it can't be won. This enemy can't be beat. You can't beat facts with fiction. You can't beat reality with imagination. At the end of the day no matter how much I try to smile and be happy to be alive... The reality of the situation is shown to me by the darkness of my sunless room, the emptiness of my bed, the scars left in my heart, and the words from all the women I've loved echoing in my head... Reminding me that they are much, much better without me. Everybody is.
So perhaps... Perhaps I should've died. Perhaps I am better off dead. No... Not "perhaps". I certainly am better off dead.
