Danny Downer (To the Beat of my Heart Breaking)

It’s the weirdest thing. I can’t seem to go out and have fun without my mind wandering to the darkest parts of myself, picking apart the most painful aspects of social functions. What’s left of my heart swells with excitement from the anticipation of fun and yet my mind won’t allow for such happenings. The latest entropic episode occurred at the Showbread concert a couple of weeks ago. They are my favorite band and I was seeing them live and really pumped about it but yet I just couldn’t have a good time. Sure, the performance was great and I got lost in the rawness but it was the wait that whittled away the anticipation and excitement. There were five bands before Showbread performed so I definitely had a lot of time on my hands. Time to think. And it’s never a good time when I’m thinking. Thinking always takes me to the sad place within myself, that retrospective spot that’s as sensitive as newborn skin. One thought leads to another and then another until I’m unhappy for a seemingly unrelated reason that has nothing to do with why I felt sad in the first place. It’s a chain reaction of reflection linked by loneliness. Ah, that loneliness, that itch that runs so deep only a chainsaw could satisfy it. Doesn’t all the sadness and frustration stem from that one little itch? It seems so for me. It’s the common denominator of my depression.

As I mentioned in a previous entry, I was surrounded by dozens of hipster teens and it basically made me feel old and fat. I’m pretty sure I was a good five years older than the oldest kid there and, consequently, I felt pretty out of place. I felt like I had taken a wrong turn to the show and ended up at Stephanie Stephano’s sweet sixteen. I swear, if they had busted out a Coke bottle and birthday cake cones, I would have bolted. No, I was at the right place, wrong age. It’s no surprise, really, as I’ve always felt more like seventy-three than twenty-three. Yep, Old Soul Syndrome. I don’t know, I’ve just always had this thing with youth. I’ve never felt young and good looking and so now I’m preoccupied with obtaining it in some form or another. And I guess I never felt like I was able to act like a kid when I was one and now I resent others who embrace their youth. It’s no one’s fault and I shouldn’t be projecting my negative vibes on anyone but it just feels a little unfair. Sitting in my chair at the concert, because my old bones can’t hold me up on their own anymore, I looked around and saw all of these fresh-faced kids paired up, holding each other’s tender hands and smiling into each other’s glistening eyes and it made me want to throw up in my mouth a little bit. So many young faces, so many problems with it all.

First of all, they all looked like they had it going on. All the guys were slim and fashionable, poster boys for American Apparel. And not a pimple on a one of them. All the girls were pretty in punk, way better looking than the girls I went to high school with, and then I realized they were probably all fifteen and I felt like a dirty old man for checking them out. I guess the dimly lit room was a bit of a factor because I understand dark helps with looks. It blots out blemishes, slims silhouettes and basically hides slight imperfections but the blackest part of the universe couldn’t salvage my style. Although the penetrating black that peppered throughout the building couldn’t hide my hideosity, it seemed to make everyone else look better. All these kids with their straight hair and streamlined style. I definitely didn’t look that great in high school. I clean up decently nowadays but it’s still taken me years just to look mediocre. And if only I had a sense of fashion in high school, if I knew how to dress and how to style my hair, maybe I would have had more confidence and would have had the courage to be more outgoing and meet interesting people and go to concerts like these kids. That confidence could have opened up the way for potentially incredible experiences. Instead, my looks forced me to remain dormant, to retire to my room weekend after weekend, with nothing to comfort me but a cheesy movie and cheesecake.

Seeing those high-schoolers reminded me of my high school years and reminded me of why I hated high school, reminded me of the immense rejection I felt every single day. There I was, feeling the effects all over again, realizing I didn’t belong in this crowd. I was left out in high school and here it is, approximately five years later, and I’m still left out, still feeling like a huge mess, untouched and not confident. Ugly then and ugly now. I know, for such an ugly guy, I put a lot of emphasis on looks. I just feel if I would have looked better I wouldn’t have been so insecure and afraid of everything and every one and every opportunity that came my way. Maybe I would have bloomed socially instead of wilting. You’re supposed to make friends in high school, date, develop social skills, forge relationships with people, begin the process of finding out who you are, begin breaking away from the parental units. I never got to experience any of that. High school is a good prep for college, not only in academics but socially and personally as well. And I messed up high school and that directly influenced college sucking so much. And not only that, but I repeated the whole process in college. As much as I said things would change when I moved, as much as I said I would come out completely different, I was still insecure and cut off from people and basically made another huge mess out of the college experience. Sure, I did change in the fact that I now have disdain for just about everyone but I wouldn’t quite call that progress. Bitterness wasn’t exactly the great transformation I was hoping for. And now, I sit back and wonder what else I’m going to mess up. There are times when I feel I am absolutely screwed, that I have completely hurt myself for the rest of my afterlife. College didn’t work out and now I have a mountain of debt waiting in the wings for me as I struggle to find any kind of job at all. I don’t know how I can come out on top when I keep being pushed down again and again.

Ah, those children with their smooth faces and swelling hearts. They have their whole lives ahead of them, time to make decisions, time to make and mend mistakes and the time to figure out their lives. At this point, what is their biggest worry? Crothety Mrs. O'Leary's math test on Monday? Nah, they've got their girlfriends and boyfriends and best friends and that one night of raw rock and nothing else matters. But it all matters to me, the fact that I'm old and damaged and I couldn't shut my mind down long enough to just enjoy the night. Sure, I got lost in the beat of the music but fell languid in the car as I drove home. I don't understand why I can't just have a good time like all the rest. My mind won't allow it. Reminders of my inadequacies always sink in some way or another. It floods every feeling and drowns any kind of positivity until even seeing my favorite band perform live leaves much to be desired.

I feel like nothing will be okay ever again.

Hm, the more I think about it, I'm thinking a birthday cake cone sounds pretty good right about now.