Lately I feel like nothing makes sense anymore. It’s like my sanity is slipping away and there’s nothing I can do about it.
A couple of weeks ago I went to talk to my therapist for the last time in this round of sessions.
He was very positive throughout our conversation, even though I was blabbering away because I almost had a panic attack the other day – one of my greatest fears.
One of the reasons I suffer from anxiety is because I was bullied all through elementary school by a girl named Holly Madison. She made my life a living hell both through mental but indeed also physical torture. She once threatened to kill me with a knife. Pretty, little Holly, who knew you were a murderous asshole.
Eventually my therapist asked me whether I was bored with my life. This took me aback and first off I felt defensive. There’s nothing wrong with my life, I told him, other than the fact that I suffer from anxiety. I want it to go away so I can be normal like everybody else.
He wasn’t convinced. He knew he’d hit a nerve when I got defensive, so he kept probing. “Are you satisfied with your life, Anna? Or is the real reason you have anxiety so that you’ll get that thrill whenever you’ve ‘survived’ one of your panic attacks?”
In a sense he was right. Whenever I’d overcome my anxiety, it was sweet bliss. I didn’t die after all, even though it felt like my whole world was collapsing because of some stupid little thing. It didn’t matter what it was, the important thing was that some situations made me feel like I could and should just end my life then and there. It’s an indescribable feeling whenever you’ve “survived” the pure panic that can overwhelm you. There’s nothing quite like overcoming your anxiety and finding out, hey, I’m still alive and the world didn’t end!
If you’ve never suffered from anxiety, I don’t quite know if you can imagine what it’s like. But then again, don’t we all have anxiety on different levels?
What you probably do know is how it feels to be bored.
“Maybe I do suffer from anxiety because of my general boredom with my life,” I said to my therapist. It’s a peculiar thing, therapy. Deep down I knew it already, that this was why I had panic attacks every week. I needed to feel something, anything, besides my stupid, normal, and worst of all, boring life.
I actually needed to feel alive. I needed to feel like I’d rescued myself. Which is what I did almost every day. I didn’t need to bungee jump or go skiing down a mountain: I could save my own life time and time again in my head without ever needing to go outside.
“Anna, I think it is important you come again next week. I think we’ve only scratched the surface of your being and maybe it’s not even anxiety you suffer from, but something a little more…”
I didn’t hear the rest, I was too focused on my own thoughts. I felt empty inside and also like a fraud. I’d kept telling myself that what I wanted more than anything in the world was to be free from anxiety. But with this new discovery of me sabotaging myself because of boredom, did I even know what I wanted?
The answer to that question was difficult to find. I went home and cried when I got to bed. I thought I wanted the best for myself. I thought I was past sabotaging my own life because I didn’t feel like I deserved anything better, because I didn’t think I was worth as much as everybody else.
When I want to remind myself that there are people worse off than me, I either watch the news or horror movies. This time I settled on a horror movie to try and cheer myself up. I know it sounds insane, but it was just what I needed: maybe I had anxiety because my life was boring and I was a dull person, but at least there wasn’t anyone chasing me with a chainsaw.
I decided to watch “American Psycho”, one of my all-time favourite movies. I was watching the part where Christian Bale gets ready to kill Jared Leto with an ax, when a thought struck me: maybe I was a psychopath when I was bored with my life. Hadn’t I once read that Ted Bundy was bored and that was basically why he murdered all those women? I find every form of violence interesting, not in a crazy way. I’d read everything I ever laid my hands on about serial killers. I knew them all: Ed Gein, John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer. I even had a favourite, of course it was Ted Bundy.
Maybe, I thought, just maybe it was worth considering… No! I shouted at myself, I am not a violent person. I’ve never been in a fight, let alone hurt anyone! But then again, you had to start somewhere.
And that’s how I found myself at the cemetery a half hour later. I’d brought a shovel for some reason. I’m not sure if I thought I could dig a body up or something, but the coffins are like three meters down in the ground. It was impossible.
I skulked around for a bit, pondering what I should do next.
I went home and for the first time in five or six years, I cut my arm again. The blood was so hypnotizing for the first thirty minutes, then I just felt empty. I hadn’t done it in so many years and look at me! I was just a useless piece of shit who couldn’t do anything right. Somebody had to pay.
I slept a couple of hours and when I woke in the morning, I knew what I had to do. I drove out in the middle of nowhere and stopped at a lonely house. I was sweating profusely. I felt delirious and I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to do.
Leaving my car, I walked up and knocked on the door. A man in his forties opened the door and looked curiously at me.
“Can I help you?” he asked me.
“Yeah, actually, this is a bit embarrassing, but I don’t feel so well and I wondered whether I could come in and get some water?”
The man let me in; I imagine I must’ve looked sick because of all the sweating.
“What are you doing out here?” he asked me and I told him I was out walking.
“Do you mind if I use your bathroom?” I asked him and ran in the general direction he was pointing. I made it to the toilet bowl just in time when my breakfast decided to make a second appearance that day.
I looked myself in the mirror – a pale zombie stared back at me. “Pull it together, Anna,” I said to myself as I brushed my teeth using the man’s toothbrush. I grabbed the mace in my pocket with fingers slick with sweat, trying to steel myself.
When I got into the kitchen, the man asked me if I wanted a cup of coffee. I said yes and when he moved away from the kitchen sink to place the cup before me, I sprayed him directly in the eyes.
He screamed and fell down, clutching his head. No sooner had he hit the floor before I’d found the basement and rummaged through his things. Finally I found some rope to tie him up with.
I must’ve gotten him good because he kept screaming, rolling around on the floor. I’m not particularly strong plus the man was middle-aged but rather fit; it was not going to be easy getting him into my car. I didn’t know what to do. I was in way over my head.
“Mister!” I yelled down at him, trying to stop him from screaming. It didn’t work. I tried pouring water on his face, but that didn’t help either.
Instead I picked up an old frying pan from one of the cupboards and hit him over the head. He passed out immediately and I tied his hands behind his back and then tied his ankles together. I was at a loss as to how I’d get him into my car. First off I thought about rolling him out the door, but it didn’t take long before it was evident that it was impossible. I resorted to dragging him through the kitchen by his feet. Who knew a normal person could be so incredibly heavy? It took me an unbelievable amount of time before I could drag him into the back seat.
I wasn’t completely sure nobody had driven by while I was dragging a lifeless man around, but I hoped no one had seen me. I was just about to leave when I thought about fingerprints. I ran into the house and wiped everything off I thought I might’ve touched but what difference did it really make – with my long, brown hair it was more than likely I’d dropped a couple of strands somewhere. I didn’t have the time or energy to vacuum the place, so I just left right after that.
I drove home to my little house where I thankfully don’t have any neighbours for a mile or so on either side. I parked the car on the other side of the house so I could drag the man in without being seen from the road. When I finally reached the basement floor, carrying the man under the arms, I collapsed from exhaustion. I had an old dining-table stored down there which I tied the man to. When I’d tied each of his limbs to a table leg I used two rolls of duct tape to secure him to the table. Then I wrapped him with three rolls of wrap film to make sure he stayed.
When I was done I got a cloth and some water and washed his eyes. He was still passed out and I could see a huge lump forming on his head from the blow I’d given him. After maybe half an hour he finally woke up.
I didn’t know what to do when he asked me where he was and what was happening, so I told him I was bored with my life. That I wanted to try something new. And unfortunately for him, he’d be involved.
For some reason I wanted him to be afraid, to cry and scream and beg for his life. I wanted him to feel just an ounce of the fear I go through every day. Instead he laughed at me and told me I was a fucking bitch for macing him.
I ran upstairs, slamming the door on his mocking laughter. It followed me all the way to the kitchen where I had to put on music to drown it out. Then I began my research. Because at first I didn’t believe I’d really be able to do this. But now I’m thinking I’d finally get to follow something through, finish just one of the innumerable projects I’m always working on.
I don’t know whether I should stab him, drown him, torture him to death, or maybe try out my new screwdriver. It’s a difficult decision when it’s your first time.
In the end, I strangle him after I stabbed him. To see the light in his eyes being extinguished like that is one of the most empowering things I’ve ever felt.
Now I just need to decide what to do with the body. Who knew a person could bleed that much? Or that there’d be so many little meat packages. It took me the whole night to cut him up. At the moment I’m storing him in my freezer. I don’t know what to do with him, but I’m thinking about dumping garbage bags with the meat packages in different trash cans.
I found his wallet with the names of his children in case of emergency. Of course they don’t live with him, which is why it would be so satisfying to maybe send them a note in a six months’ time to torment them a bit. At that time they won’t completely have lost hope in finding their father alive.
How do I feel now that I know someone will be looking for me very soon? It is actually rather thrilling. They won’t know they’re looking for me for a long time, maybe they’ll never know it was me, but that’s okay. I can live with that. At the moment I’m contend…
But then again, I just had an idea. Maybe I owe Holly a visit, just for old time’s sake. I’ve heard she has a husband, maybe that’ll be just the thing. To punish her by hurting him. To show her who’s the REAL boss. I hate that bitch and she deserves whatever I have in store for her.
I can feel the walls of my house closing in. Maybe it isn’t just anxiety I’m suffering from. Maybe I really am crazy, you know, ready to be committed to the insane asylum-crazy.
But who cares. Just for now, the voices are silent. And now you know what to do whenever you feel anxious.