When I was fifteen the only thing I could fathom as truth was that life sucked. It wasn't because I was depressed or whatever, at least I think it wasn't because I had evidence that it was true and they teach you in school that to confirm something you need evidence. I had two pieces of evidence; the first was that life is so short, it shouldn't even be called life. When you're a kid you go to school on your first day because that's the thing to do and you keep going to school for the next twelve years because that's the thing to do. Then you graduate and some people start working and some keep going to school because that's the thing to do. People fall in love and get married, people grow old and retire and people die because those are all the things to do. So life ends as swiftly as it begins and there really wasn't much point in anything to me because we were all going to die anyway, so why study? Why worry about things? Why get married? Why have jobs? Why do anything? This brings me to my second piece of evidence.
Life is cruel. It gives us a conscious so we do worry about things, so we feel like we have to study and get a job and get married because those are the things to do. Then we spend all our life doing those things and then we die making everything we did in life obsolete. I hated life for this and I hated everybody who called life beautiful because life is just one long 'to do' list full of suck. But I kept living despite my utter loathing for all things involved in living because my Dad said I had to.
Dad told me that I have to live my life because it's another thing to do and that we should enjoy it while we can. I pointed out to Dad that Mum didn't have to do any of the things 'to do' and then Dad got really upset and went to the pub. Mum had died a year earlier from a brain tumour and everything she did while she was alive didn't matter anymore because she couldn't do those things again. A week after she died, my Dad sent me back to school and on my first day back I didn't have any lunch because Mum had always made my lunch for me. When I told my teacher she unkindly let me know that I was being selfish and that my mum couldn't always make lunch for me. The fact that I still expected my Mum to make lunch for me even though she was dead probably was selfish of me but at that moment I couldn't think about it that way as I realised what death was and entailed and that life was really just the lead up to death, then I wanted to kill myself.
After a period of two days, I finally deduced my course of action; I normally had a few minutes home by myself before Dad came in which would be enough time. I came into the house on the afternoon I had planned and found the largest knife in the kitchen. My clammy hands wrapped themselves around the handle and turned the blade point toward my chest, just above the pulsating beat of my heart. The blade had only just touched my skin ready to pierce through my ribs when Dad came in. That was the only day I saw him scared of anything, he calmly approached me and pried the knife from my hands then he told me to sit down at the table while he made a phone call. Then he asked me some questions and I told him why life sucked and wasn't worth living and then he said I had to live because Mum wouldn't have wanted me to die and that one day I'd understand the worth of life. I wasn't so sure.
That day apparently Dad had called a psychiatrist and I had to go see him every Thursday at 6:00pm sharp since then. His name was Dr. Free which was ironic because when I walked into his office I felt like I was walking into a penitentiary. All he wanted to talk about was my mother's death and then at the end of every session he'd tell me "Remember Oliver, It will not do you good to dwell on the matters of the past." So, personally, I thought my shrink was a bit of an idiot but I went every week anyway to make my dad's life suck as little as possible. Most of the things I did, I only did to make dad happy because I had a conscious and it told me that making dad happy was another thing 'to do'.
Making Dad happy meant I had to attend school and I had to study and I had to try my best because those were things to do when you were fifteen. The only subject I enjoyed was English because we got to read books by Jane Austen and plays by William Shakespeare who despite being dead were still thought highly of, which made me think that their lives didn't suck as much as everybody else's. At the school I attended every second week we'd miss half of our English lessons for career workshops, which sucked because I didn't want a job of any kind. The more ambitious in my grade loved these workshops because they did want jobs and they were trying to plan their futures because that was the thing to do. My teachers had long since given up on making me try to participate or even listen and let me read to my heart's content.
So school was hell for me as were my mental health sessions (that didn't make a god damned difference) and every other aspect of my life was also hell. My life continued to be hell for over a year even though everyone said I was doing well or whatever; the only reason they thought that was because I got straight A's in school. I hoped I would die young and for over a year I was convinced that life was a meaningless event of consciousness that began and ended with nothing; but something changed and my Dad's argument that one day I would understand what life was about, finally made sense.