Thread: Grant
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Old February 4th, 2012 (9:01 AM).
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AtavanHalen343 AtavanHalen343 is offline
Dacaytus, one of my sprites.
Join Date: Jan 2012
Gender: Male
Posts: 62
This story is from personal experience. I have Narcissistic Personality Disorder as well, and I tried to keep my thoughts here as uncensored as possible, in case you were thinking, "Wow, what a self-absorbed d-bag."

Grant stared blankly into nothing as he sat on the cold, hard ground underneath a towering oak. A tear condensed in the pit of his eye as that malignant thought crept back into his mind, the cancerous depression overwhelming him. Life’s meaning had become a distant fantasy, only for those who were still blissfully ignorant of how ugly life is underneath the surface. He had taken several first-hand tastes from the bitter cup of pain and loss. His greatest obstacle that he had to surmount was his brilliant mind, a task of Everest-proportions. A lot of people wish that they were geniuses, but he was certain that one taste of the insanity that comes with intelligence, coupled with the loss of that blissful ignorance, would change that in an instant. He often wondered what it would be like to be as ignorant as a small child again. Intelligence isn’t a gift; it’s more along the lines of a curse or a two-edged sword. He had difficulty deciding which he would rather have. He spent the majority of his time weighing the pros and cons of each side of his thoughts, but he still couldn’t decide which would be better. Sometimes, he couldn’t find the logic and sense behind existing in the first place. Life, in-and-of itself, seemed to be an illogical fallacy. No one could win. What’s the point in participating in the race of life when no one could reach that finish line?
Grant has always been a Christian, but his own intelligence and thought process have caused him to question his concrete conviction in the existence of God. He never rejected God or abandoned Him, but sometimes he forgot that God was always watching and that He had a plan for Grant. He questioned where God’s plan was taking him. It didn’t make sense to him. He knew he was a man and the divine logic behind God’s plan was above and beyond his feeble, mortal understanding. He also knew that the easiest way to escape his pain, by effectively ending himself, was not an option. He knew that burning in a lake of fire for the rest of eternity was infinitely worse than whatever he was going through at the time. He stood up, not caring enough to brush off the seat of his pants. What did it matter, anyway?
He didn’t care what his peers thought, outside of a few of them. He didn’t care if some high school girl with lower inhibitions than she should have thought he looked good. He only cared what one girl thought, but she didn’t really seem to care about him anymore. She said she cared, but her actions and behavior lately spoke volumes otherwise. He knew that it was completely foolish to be so upset and distraught over a single girl; his intelligence and ability to analyze what was the “norm” and considered common told him that. The fact that it wasn’t normal, however, didn’t change the fact that he was. He hated himself for it, too. Why couldn’t he just get over her? The pain that the situation caused him was immense.
He realized at that moment that he had started walking. He wasn’t sure where he was headed, but, at the moment, he didn’t care. He just needed to walk so his mind could take some time to mull over and sort through all of the thoughts that had been running rampant through his troubled mind. He continued walking until he tripped on something, causing him to splay out and hit the ground hard.
The faded, off-white fence he was walking beside had collapsed at some points, spilling out onto the sidewalk. Normally, he would have avoided it, but he was so immersed in his thoughts that he didn’t have the sensory capacity to avoid petty obstacles. He picked himself back up and wiped off the blood that had begun streaming from his nostril. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and jammed the end into his nose to force it to clot. He felt a stinging and a dull throbbing coming from his left leg. Looking down, he saw blood seeping from several scrapes up his shin and calf, off-white splinters poking out like wooden hairs from his newly acquired abrasion. He winced as he plucked the wooden spikes from the area, new red dots popping up in the spots that they had sunk in particularly deep. His anger sparked as he continued walking. He was mad at himself for carelessly tripping and injuring himself like that. His angered clouded his thoughts, and he gave up on his philosophical moment. As he continued walking, it started drizzling, washing the crusted blood off of his face. He walked home in mental silence, allowing the rain to soak him deeper and deeper into his chasm of despair.
He walked in the front door of his home two hours later, utterly drenched to the bone. His mother was waiting for him in the parlor area, a solemn expression on her face and her arms and legs folded tensely.
“Where have you been?” she demanded of him. He didn’t respond. He simply proceeded to remove the drenched clothes, dropping them into the puddle that had formed under his outline on the ground. She got that look of annoyance that always caused a twinge of sadness and infuriation in Grant.
“I’m so sick of your attitude! What has gotten into you? Why have you been acting so-” “Mom, please shut up. I need to think and calm down.” Grant said quietly, cutting her off. Her face turned crimson; Grant had crossed a line, and he knew it. He turned back around and walked out of the house while his mom started to scream. Ignoring her, he broke into a sprint. He ran at a dead sprint down the sidewalk for a minute straight. He stopped and leaned against a tree, huffing and trying to replenish all of the oxygen he had burned in his muscles and his mind. He needed to think of what to do and where to go next.
He loved his mom. He loved his whole family. They were nice, Christian, and loving; Grant just needed space and time to think. He didn’t know what to do. He kept walking, still sucking wind. He had enough of his oxygen reservoir replenished for him to be able to think. Banking left, he walked down the gravel path to the Booker-Washington Bridge. The Hell Cliffe Bridge, as it was colloquially known, overhangs a massive, ninety-seven foot drop called the Phantom Gorge. The Phantom Gorge was a geological wonder. It was a pit, a ninety-seven foot gaping drop straight into the Earth’s crust. A Native American tribe indigenous to the area believed that the Gorge led directly to Hell; ironically, the tribe also believed that the First Peoples climbed out from this very hole, having escaped the Punisher.
Grant smiled a bit as his all-too-intelligent mind immediately spewed out these facts, a reflex ingrained in his very being. He leaned over the railing, staring into the gaping abyss. He was deathly afraid of heights, but, for some reason, the all-consuming blackness of the maw was extremely inviting. This triggered a silent alarm in the back of his mind, but he pushed it off the side. He hadn’t realized it, but he had climbed up onto the railing. The closer he got to that darkness, the more comfortable and giddy he felt. He knew what his body was doing, but he made no attempts to stop. His mind was on red alert now, trying to get some sense back up and running in his body, but he couldn’t stop. No, he wouldn’t stop. He knew he had to do this. His time was over. He smiled genuinely for the first time in almost a year as he took a step, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the feeling of freefall began in his body, letting his mind go blank. The moment of happiness ended as Grant slipped back into reality. He stepped back off of the railing, landing softly for his size. He wanted to off himself; he really did. He couldn’t, though. He knew he couldn’t.

Grant sat quietly in his basement. He took a sip from a green tea bottle sitting next to him and turned his focus back to Mass Effect 2. He had a mental breakdown a few days earlier, which involved him crying for three and a half hours in his mother’s arms. He had confessed how upset and depressed he had been, and how for as long as he could remember, he had been sad and miserable. They took him to Dr. Greathaus, the doctor that handles his ADHD, and she diagnosed him with severe depression. She prescribed him an antidepressant and had him stay home from school for a week. He was feeling a little better after a day or so of being home, but still felt those occasional pangs of immense sadness that had constantly plagued him for years. He centered his entire focus on Mass Effect, popping out of cover and shooting a Geth Destroyer that was charging him. He didn’t want to think of those feelings for fear of them returning.
A few days later, Grant was feeling better than he had ever felt before in his life. Everything seemed just a bit better, a bit happier, and, truthfully, he felt that life actually had some magic to it, just a bit of rhyme and reason, in doses meant to counterbalance the insanity. He still got those dark feelings and suicidal thoughts, but he could better dismiss them and keep them at bay. He had also met with his therapist, Peter Ray. Peter Ray was a fat and absolutely hilarious man that Grant had met at church camp years ago. Peter Ray had become one of Grant’s best friends in the few meetings they already had. Having a person there that could help him understand what he was going through was fantastic. It was great to know that whenever he needed something, he could call Peter Ray and talk to him about anything. Grant sat back, sipping his green tea, which was his favorite drink, and, for the first time in as long as he could remember, a genuine smile lit his face.
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