This has been a really shit week for me, emotionally speaking. I usually only have, at most, a couple of days where I just mope around and hate life. Never before has it been a whole week.
This week was really bad, I straight up fell into a pit of despair and just didn’t care anymore. I’ve been really closely following all this Gamergate shit since its inception, watching horrible shit happen to people who fall outside of “The Norm.” And it’s just that wonderful reminder that we’ll never be accepted, and really only makes my already shitty mental state all the worse. Women, People of Color, LGBT folks, anyone who isn’t already a part of the status quo will always be looked at as “lesser,” regardless of the progress we make. There will always be that ugly, violent side that will do its damndest to revert to the ways of old. Whether it’s using fear and intimidation to scare victims into silence, or just straight up beating and murdering them. It shouldn’t be considered “brave” to be Out in public, and yet it is, because in the worst case scenario: you can be killed.
I can be killed.
I haven’t cried in years. I was probably fifteen the last time I did, after a particularly brutal beatdown I suffered from my father. Oh, I’ve been sad, certainly. But never any waterworks. Deaths of loved ones, bad breakups, bouts of “God I’m such a worthless piece of shit,” have all been handled as stone-faced as possible. I’m sure I look like an emotionless robot. However, this past week, staring at such a concentrated level of hate directed at people just because they could, was too much for me. Seeing shitty nerds willing to shoot up a school just to keep the tits in video games as large as possible try to goad a trans woman into committing suicide (unsuccessfully, thank goodness) was the breaking point. I just sat back in my office chair and wept into my hands for, I don’t know, fifteen minutes? Maybe twenty? I don’t know. I just know that the rest of my day was an absolute blur. I went to sleep early that night.
People see me in public, or they read my work online, and I’m sure they think I’m this happy dude. I mean, fuck, literary professors tell me I’m talented and porn stars tell me I’m attractive, I should have a massive, over-inflated ego! I should be starting every day with a fistpump and shouting out to nobody in particular that I’m the fucking man. Instead, I slowly roll out of bed, my first thought being, “I’m such a piece of shit. I hate myself.” That’s what mental illness does to you. Praise is mere patronage. Compliments are a formality. You know the real truth: that they’re full of shit. That they’re just saying these things to be nice. You don’t deserve any of this. You are completely fucking worthless. Fuck you. Add in the fact that I’m frequently told that I’m a child-touching, disease-spreading degenerate who will bring ruin to Western Civilization because I get turned on fucking dudes and watching other dudes fuck each other, and you had better believe I spend a lot of time feeling like my brain is a massive paperweight. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
And, getting back to Gamergate, I wouldn’t wish that shit on anyone, either. Terrible people harassing borderline suicidal people into going over the edge hits way too fucking close to home for me (remember, Zoe Quinn, the main target of this campaign, made her name on an autobiographical game called “Depression Quest”), which is probably why I’m so invested in this than any other serious issue facing the world at the moment. I can’t just log off Twitter and ignore this. If the victims can’t, then I shouldn’t be able to, either. I wish I had even an ounce of courage these women have. In their position, I would not have it this long; it would be nothing short of a miracle if I were still alive after week number three. I can’t respect them enough.