It is in times of deep tragedy that one of the human race’s biggest divides reveals itself. A massive schism erupts between the closed, isolated mind of the individual, and the invasive, reaching hands of the society. Deeper and deeper these hands pry, digging into the very substance of the body, causing the walls of the individual to rise higher, hell-bent on preserving its solidarity, its individualism, its being, until at the end, only one is left standing. This is the story of such a divide.

Some call it a “quiet place”. Some describe it as the place they go to when they need to get away. Some fashion it so that it works in the brief moments that they are required to calm down, and then quickly return back to what they were doing previously.

What do I call it? Home.

A despicable home then, it must be, right? Terrifying, desolate, barren? Not so. My home is fully furnished, equipped with all the furniture I need to sleep, eat, and most importantly, think. It is my dream house, really. There, I can truly live. Now for some, this may seem a touch eccentric. Come back to reality, they say. You must learn to live in the real world, talk to real people, contribute to our very real society. Ah but you’re missing the point, I think to myself. This IS my reality. What governs the way in which I see the world, what gives you the right to tell me what I must do, why must I live the way you want me to live? Of course, I never say this out loud. It would certainly land me on the next bus to a psychological ward. Instead, I nod, sometimes even curling up the sides of my mouth in a spurious smile. I know who I am.

Now, I’m not a complete outsider to the socially acceptable lifestyle. I enjoy video games, twitter, and on occasion, I’ll hang out with someone- provided they aren’t the type that likes to ask questions. In fact, I’ll run you through a typical day. Yesterday.

“I’ll need the car today Mom”, I had said, playing with the last few strawberries in my cereal.

“Of course”, she replied, without looking up, concentrating heavily on cutting tomatoes into the thinnest slices possible. My mom hadn’t been herself these past few days, probably a recurrence of her occasional bouts of depression. Not that it was any concern of mine. So I got up, not bothering to clean up after myself, and left for school.

Third quarter of junior year and everyone was freaking out. Internships, grades, SAT’s, ACT’s, the works. I can barely retain my laughter, hearing the hushed conversations on what the test was on, if the teacher checked homework, what scores they received on the physics project. It was despicable.  “Who cares?”, I thought, scoffing at the absurdity of these people. But, hey, if that’s how they live their lives, I wasn’t going to say anything. Anyways, the day wasn’t that bad. Only 5 people had given me the “look” today. The look that was sprinkled with disgust, fear, and most irritating of all, pity. It was the look people are bound to give you after your billionaire dad leaves you and your mom for a younger woman, leaves enough money for you to live your life without working, then disappears from your life forever. But, hey, whatever. As well as the lack of the look, I didn’t even have to talk to the psychologist today. That little she-devil of a woman who tries to get me to talk about my feelings, to “open up”. “No thanks,” I always tell her, retreating to my previously mentioned home in my head. What is it with people and thinking I need help?

After school, I have a routine that isn’t so bad. I lift, an action that is fairly soothing, then run and grab a protein shake, and perhaps dinner, since my mother’s cooking skills are approximately that of a monkey with no hands. I try to avoid going home as long as possible, as from 5 to 6 my mom uses booze and the occasional cigarette to drown herself in a self-induced misery slide down to the depths of a sorry excuse of a hell. Today, I decide to go to our local bookstore, a small quaint little place away from the prying eyes of social conformists. I open up my favorite Kurt Vonnegut book, Slaughterhouse Five, and start reading for what must be the 1000th time. But sadly, I do have to return home at some point. Thinking of the best way to avoid my mom, I parked and walked inside. And then, as I round the bend from the corridor to the living room, I witness my mom sprawled on the priceless black bear fur rug, saliva slowly seeping out of her gaping mouth, as dead as the very animal who had given its life to make the thing she was sleeping on.

And all the meanwhile, in my very twisted head, I can only think of those three words I had read countless times.

“So it goes”.

Today, I can’t stop thinking about one thing. Words that I once thought were deranged, messed-up, and inapplicable to life. “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide”. Albert Camus. The more I think, the more I grow restless, unable to contain the swirling thoughts in my head. My mother had decided that it was better to die than to live. My father that life was better without his son, his ex-wife. And now, finally, it was my turn to make a decision. Already, colleagues of my mother had taken me in, talked to the school, the people that would sometimes take the form of a friend. Already, they will have scheduled real psychiatric help, perhaps looking into an institution for people with situations like mine. But one pervasive question kept entering my mind. One question that Camus had identified as the only question that really mattered. The question that had started as a small, insignificant seed, but had now sprouted into a truly impressive monster of a tree. I circled the question a couple more times in my head, knowing full well that at some point, I would have to tackle it head on. But what was even more frightening to me was that I knew the answer. I knew how to finally escape the reaching, grasping hands of society. I saw the door that would lead me out. So I sat there, in an unfamiliar bed, with the same pills that had once been tightly held by my mother. And as I retreated to home in my head, I asked myself, one last time.

Is it worth it?