There's so much I want to say here...so many thoughts, ideas, even memories floating through my head.
See, here's the thing. There was a time in my life where I could have very easily turned into Elliot Rodger. In truth, looking back? I'm not entirely certain why I didn't.
Don't for a second think I'm not repulsed by what he did, or his words and actions leading up to what he did. But with that said, on some level, as much as I hate that this is true, I understand.
Let me step below the orange discussion croissant and I'll tell you why.
First, let me be up front with you. I'm a 38 year old, reasonably intelligent, single man. I have a good job, some good friends, and I am agonizingly inept in any social setting.
You remember that kid in school who just REALLY wanted to be liked, but he wore the wrong clothes, couldn't do sports, and broke the curve in all his classes? Or how about the morbidly obese kid who couldn't control the zits on his face or the sweat that rolled off of him through the course of a school day? You know the one, the kid who spent the last 6 or 7 years of public education with a gigantic target on his back.
See, all that? That was me. That was my no win situation in high school. My folks couldn't afford the "cool" clothes. I was born blind in one eye so sports were more or less out. And I had two choices on grades: I could get good grades, with the associated abuse at school, and not get in trouble at home. Or I could get less good grades, still catch hell at school for all the other reasons noted, AND get in trouble at home.
I was, in pretty much all ways, the outcast. And while looking back, there WERE peers who reached out to me, I was too far gone in my own mind to appreciate that at the time.
I never wrote or recorded some manifesto of my misery, but if anyone had been able to hear the internal dialogue in my head throughout high school, they would have either been terrified of me, or terrified for me. Even 20, 25 years later, I still vividly remember laying down to sleep at night and instead of counting sheep, I would daydream of revenge, on myself or on others, until it bled from my system enough that I could calm myself enough to actually sleep.
Did I dream of suicide? You bet! Did I dream of horrible punishments for those who scorned me, guys and girls both? Absolutely!
And looking back, the worst part is this... I stood and took the insults, the beatings, getting my head slammed into lockers, or my legs kicked out from under me in the halls. Why, you ask? Because even at 14 or 15, I HATED what was running through my head, hated myself for having the thoughts I did. I felt I deserved the abuse, because of the hatred and blood in my dreams. And it fed a vicious cycle.
And living in a small town, getting help wasn't even a consideration. The thought of being found out and adding "headcase" to the list of what made me a target was unacceptable.
This fed on through my college years, and it led to me basically trying to suicide by indifference. I didn't actively try to kill myself. In some ways I was too far into acceptance of my miserable state that it would have been too easy an out for me. What I could do, and did do, was try to drown myself in drugs and booze. I wasn't trying to kill myself, but with the cocktail of crap in my system, it came down to either it would help me forget for a time, or I wouldn't wake up...and either option was perfectly okay with me.
Now, some good news. I've been clean for almost 20 years. I didn't take the easy out, I fought through it after a rather spectacularly bad overdose.
But I do understand how this guy got to the place he was in. I found a different way out, and even my way almost got me killed in the process.
And you know? Decades later, I STILL have the occasional night where something really gets to me, and I lay down to sleep, still alone, just in a bigger bed, and I daydream of getting even. I dream of being good enough to stake my claim to a better life. The only difference? When I was 15, I wasn't comfortable enough in my own mind to understand that dreams don't equate to reality.
Now instead of dreaming about taking weapons to school, I know how to vent my frustrations better. I don't rage until I sleep on these nights, I cry until I sleep.
And when I wake up the next morning? I don't hate everyone, as I did back then.
After all, some things have gotten better in my life, but in some ways? I'm still that sad, lonely, inept person I always was.
And no, I don't need armchair or professional analysis. I already have that. But it's like anything else in life, mental health is a process, not a destination.
3:15 PM PT: I need to step away for a bit, but please let's continue the discussion on this. I know this is kind of a terribly personal diary, but I feel like we're also getting some interesting notes on this that are leading to some good general discussion as well.
Thanks, Doug