Me as a Nazi

As a depression-laden person, full of wrath and wicked hatred, I often wondered what would have been if I had been born in our countrys blackest period. Would I've joined the Hitlerjugend? Would I've been impressionable by the parades, the lies and the mass hysteria? Would I've even been capable to kill or torture? To feel endless hatred amongst all intruders? Capable to kill women, children without ever feeling a dark cloud of guilt pending above my darkened mind?

And I'm so damn shure I would've been one of the worst. I would have tortured, I would have killed and destroyed so many innocent lives. By now I would've never killed children, but I would've been one of the many coming home from "work", kissing my blessed children with blood stained hands. Sitting down at the table, giving my daughter presents I'd had taken from suffering victims, asking lovely questions about my familys day, kissing my wife with lips burning from long interrogations. She would've beared my bad breath, mouth rotting like that poor little soul of mine. I would have done my job with passion. I would have tortured those responsible for my misery, my state of being lost and small, and had already given myself up.

I would have had the incredible impertinence to allege, that I'd do this for my family. I would have believed in scapegoats day by day. And I would have been the same coward I am now.
And one day I would have killed myself.

Getting started

Well. The first letters here are easy I'd say... why do I do this, who am I and all that other crap no one yet is interested in. So I start saying that for some weeks I felt I needed to get things out of my wicked brain. In English, so I could reach more people. In German to point out things better and in Spanish, not to show off but to get that damn part of me speaking as well, as it is a part of me that I often neglected and hated as substitution for my father, that part that left me up in the air so many damn times. It's almost like a whisper in the back of my head, but more... that heritage is something that kept me suffering but alive, a harsh proletarian counterpart to my aristocratic German background.

And I feel gratitude. The older I get. And this shows me in those bright seconds (even less, let's say flashes) that I'm on my way to find peace. The rest of my time I do gladly spend with anger, fear, loneliness, hatred, despair, selfhatred and escape.

Now my newest detection is some heavy depressions. Incapacitating me, forcing me to sit night after night in front of my laptop, which is nothing but my substitution for the TV I've left behind with wife and children. I changed heroin for cocaine I guess. One of the main reasons to get me writing this is the urge to do something with my wasted time, so why not waste it in the internet, in that cryptic blogger universe that never ever intersted me much before. But, hey, here we are...

One things for shure: my depressions will tell me not to write continuously day after day, so they do now: "Stop that!" they say, "You'll regret this!" "Tomorrow You'll be dead tired!" etc. etc.
Dammit! They're right, they've won.
But in one thing they're wrong:

I do not regret this.