What Happened to R?

The last six months have been difficult. Not because I've been facing death, because I’m depressed and lonely, or because anything particularly bad happened to me. It wasn’t because someone broke my heart, or because I'm nearing the end of the proverbial college road. And it wasn’t because I put my hopes into things that I shouldn’t have. These last six months have been hell, and they’ve been hell for one reason. I’m insane.     I’m a crazy person. Saying it even makes me feel comfortable with it. I think I like being a crazy person. Who wouldn’t? Life’s more fun that way. It's very freeing. I don't have to explain myself anymore. I don't even have to make rational decisions. "Why did you do that?" Don't ask me. I'm crazy.     Driving home from school last Thursday, I was very nearly in a major car accident, one that would have t-boned my car and possibly ended my life. Fortunately, through some combination of braking and turning, both cars were able to walk away undamaged. Not a single scar. Except maybe one.     During the moment when I looked out my window, the moment I saw this car flying towards my door, I had a thought pop into my head so swiftly and calmly that it made my skin crawl the very moment it was over. I drove home angrily, clenching the steering wheel so tight that the veins I thought were lost began popping out of my arms. I was pissed off. Because in my one moment of honesty with myself, in my one moment of unfiltered, unanalyzed emotion, I thought, “Thank God.”     I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to kill myself. I’m a firm atheist. I know that this life is all there is. I want to live a long fucking time, and I give deep emotional meaning and context to useless daily activities because I cherish every chance I get to soak up life. I want to have kids, and get married, and have six careers, and travel the world. All those things you think are dumb growing up. All the things I’ve secretly wanted since I was five, no matter what representation of bitter cynicism and counterculture I may have evolved into.     But in that moment of sheer mortality, when it was going to end without my choice, all that I felt was sweet relief. Relief from all the needless emotion I go through, relief from my endless impatience, and relief from my need to question, understand, and in turn be cynical about everything. Relief from being crazy.     Upon reaching my bedroom, slamming the door behind me, my blood began to boil. My muscles tensed up, my heart's pace quickened, and my mind began to rage. Something in my life was seriously wrong. What the fuck was I doing? How fucked up is my life when I’m about to die, and all I can think of is “Thank God?”     “FUCK!” I screamed. “FUCK!” And with a rage I haven’t felt in years, I unleashed every violent force in my body into one punch, into one wall.     I stood back and stared at the massive hole my fist had just made. "That drywall's weak, I broke right through it," I thought. "Fuck that drywall, it’s pussy shit."     And I begin to laugh. I laugh at the drywall. I laugh, and laugh, and laugh.     Then I turn around and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked at the man in the mirror and uttered the truest words I’ve said in a while. “Look how messed up you are. You are a wreck.”     I sat on the floor sobbing, running over my life in infinite detail, and I couldn’t escape one fact. This is how I am.     I’m emotional. I’ve been ready to admit that since I was 19. I’m 21 now, and I think I’m ready to admit something more. I’m a crazy person. And this proves it.     I had gone nuts. Throwing out posters, movies, clothes, furniture – anything that I saw as unnecessary. I deleted my Facebook and MySpace accounts. At first I thought I was packing up to leave, to bail on school, on my friends, on life. Pack my car and hit the road. I wanted to drop off the face of the earth. I wanted to disappear forever. But this experience didn't happen because I wanted to die. It happened because I was dissatisfied with the current state of my so-called "life."     Realizing I was only 17 credits away from completing my degree, I knew I was stuck for now. I had to make it through the next 9 months. Somehow. Someway. I was determined to simplify, to reduce bullshit, to have new goals, new projects, new perspectives. I continued packing, rearranging, crying, ranting, raving, and throwing away. Who knows what I was doing. I went insane, because that’s what us crazy people like to do.     There are times I wish I wasn’t this person. The person that questions, and critiques, and analyzes, and draws deeper meaning, and becomes emotionally invested instantly. I do wish I wasn’t that person. I see the mindless, happy citizens. I see them and I wish that was me. But that’s not me. That’s never been me. That’s never going to be me. And now I think I can face that.     College has been a roller coaster ride of decisions, changes, emotions, turmoil, struggle, self-hatred, and emotional release. College was what it should have been; a time to grow, change, explore, and experiment. And I'm sure those processes will continue. But I'm done. I feel now like I did at the end of high school. Done. Ready to explore myself in new ways, in new places, with new people.     And I have no idea where my life is headed. And I’m terrified. And that’s ok. That’s life. Because I’m ready for a change. I could move back home. I could stay here. I could go to grad school. I could join Peace Corps. But more than likely, you'll find me in my car, headed for L.A.     Big changes are coming. Permanent goodbyes are imminent. Difficult times are ahead. And I can’t fucking wait.     And that’s what happened.