I’ve lived all my life wondering what it is that I’m living for. There was this interesting question that a teacher asked us many years ago: Would you die for those you love or would you live for them? I thought about it. I had a liking for such philosophical things, but I knew that the question didn’t apply to me. I never had anyone to love.
My parents died before I could remember. In my mother’s will, I went to live with my aunt. She was like the generic evil stepmother in the fairytales I read as a kid — mean, controlling, and unloving. I was told to do all of the house chores, and I did them willingly. I was thankful for the life she had given me, but she never seemed to be satisfied. She never married and had no kids. I always thought that that might be the reason why she treated me so. But I think we had something in common — we never learned to love.
I grew up not having any friends. But it’s not like I’ve never tried. I’ve tried to change my life. I’ve tried to make friends. I’ve tried to be more outgoing. But in the end, all efforts were futile. I never had the courage to talk to people. I was always afraid that I might accidently say something that will make them hate me forever. I was afraid to be alone, but my efforts to prevent that only resulted in more solitude. Even in those rare instances where I do get the courage, I find myself not having any topics of discussion. I haven’t had enough experiences in my life. I don’t have anything interesting to talk about. I don’t have any worthwhile stories to share.
I’ve never been the kind of person who wants to be the center of attention. But it’s different when no one pays attention to you. It’s different when no one ever acknowledges your existence. I just want someone to tell me that I matter. I want to have something to live for. It’s not something to boost my ego, but simply a sign of affirmation that I’m real. I go through everyday as if I were just a spectator, as if this life is something that I’m not actually living, but simply observing from the first person.
When I was young, I thought about all the possibilities, all the different things I could be when I grew up. I was hopeful. But as I grew up, as I began to understand more about the reality of the world, all those dreams and aspirations seemed less and less plausible and became more and more distant. I work as a janitor at Phiph Middle School three blocks down the street. It’s nothing flashy. Being a janitor is rather stigmatic by society’s standards. But it’s fitting. Think about it. It’s a job where you are secluded from human interaction and left every day observing the doings of other people. No one ever talks to their janitor. People know they exist, but have absolutely no interest in who they are. They’re just there to clean up everyday when classes are over. It’s the one thing in my life that shows that I have purpose, but I was too replaceable. Anyone could’ve done what I did.
It’s kind of depressing to think that when coming to the end of my life, I feel so empty. Maybe I was never meant to be around people. I have nobody. I hate my job. I hate my parents for leaving me alone in this world. I hate my life. I struggle to find a reason to continue. On the bright side, at least I have nothing to live for. No one is waiting for me tomorrow morning to have breakfast together. No one is expecting me to see my face in the morning. I have no responsibilities. I have no fear. No one will be hurt if I go.