I've Finally Decided...

With all the things that have come to pass in my life, I've come to a peace with myself that I need to share this. Or it's going to remain locked up inside of me, like a poison.

I feel really sick inside often. It kind of started when a long time friend of mine left. Even though we hadn't been close for almost a year, in the last amount of time we had together we became closer almost every day. With that closeness, for the first time, I latched onto some hope that everything would be okay. Even though my life was going down the drain, by hanging onto Shelby, (who I now know suffered from similar problems) I'd be okay. In our younger years, we'd experimented with our emotions, never truly coming to terms with what we felt. When she moved away though, it was a harsh reminder of those failed experiments.

In these last few months I find myself slipping in and out of reality, more and more frequently. I have fits of unexplained rage, of fear, over the simplest of things, like being left alone, or missing a scheduled weekly appointment at my favorite coffee place. Things that shouldn't matter, but all the sudden, I go off, breaking stuff, screaming when no one can hear me, just to keep myself safe. Because if anyone truly asked, I know I wouldn't be able to hold t together. As a kid, I'd sit in my closet and rip clothing apart with my nails. I was never into cutting, I found it more fun to torture myself by breaking things that were important to me. Sometimes, in the middle of those fits, I'd come to my senses and hide my most prized possessions, so I couldn't destroy them. Then, once I'd calmed down enough, I'd fall asleep. When I'd wake up, I'd fee; perfectly fine, and dismiss the episodes as just passing little fits, nothing serious.

I'd stil have done that if I hadn't looked back today into old journals and memories I'd had before. What disturbed me was that ot only did I seem to have these problems as a child so violently that I'd blocked them from my memory, but that they had been so violent to be forgotten. To prove this, here is an entry I found from one of my journals, one of the ones our teachers had forced all the sixth graders to write, looking back on their years in elementary school. I have my friends entry, and my own. Hers was a lot happier. Here is mine.


Most of the time this seems like a record more than a way to share what I think virtually. Not that anyone reads this, so I don't really care.

What I do care about is I totally suck at drawing and it really bugs me. I mean, I used to like what I drew, but now, now that I see other people's drawing, I realize how horrible I am. And since I never excel at anything, it was like my last strength. Now? Nope. I'm just some wannabe artist with crappy drawing skills and no motivation.

What I really want to do, is draw what I have in my mind. I can't write anymore, so I try not to express stuff that way, and drawing is like an alternate way. But now with that path burned, I'm out of options. You can't very well sing a person into existence, can you?

It just seems like I inspire someone to try something, to try hard, and they beat me. There was a time when I was good at stuff, I guess, but now I'm just the idiot. Kind of like the stupid loyal dog. And well, I'm not sure if I'm supposed to resent that or not. Sure, it sucks being treated like a piece of trash, but no one ever expects me to do anything, and no one gets disappointed with me if I fail, because if I fail, it wasn't much of anything anyways. So no loss, right? But when I think like that, I can very well say, no one cares much if I'm here or not, so why don't I just leave? leave and never come back?

And this is where the complications arise. See, I could very well leave and never come back, but I'd probably wind up as some blank, run-of-the-mill average person who works at some job, doing the same thing about another million people are doing too. Being what a person by definition could do. Like a doll, nothing inside, an empty hollow shell. But would people be upset by that? I mean, what if I disappeared? Would I be in trouble?

That brings up a second problem. I'm too dependent on other's opinions of me, that I've lost all of my own. Anime? That's stupid! says someone, and even though something in me before liked it, well I guess I don't anymore. Wow, Hollister, that's so HAWT! says another person, and even though I look at their barbie-esque fashion sense, I realize, Oh, I should like that too. And the more I realize the more I disappear. Someday I won't even be her anymore, under the layers of other's opinions that oppressed me. I think I'm supposed to be afraid of that.

But I'm not.

People tell me that I should, so I try, but it's just like the vacant look in my eyes I have to hide, or my lack of emotion. I honestly can say just don't care anymore. The brain still works, sure, but where are all the passionate, stupid emotions your supposed to feel, even as an adult? There not there. I don't feel like I'm lacking anything. There was nothing ever there. Or so I tell myself, now, because even though I remember times where I might have felt like that, my body doesn't. It just knows now. And now is this. This constant non-feeling.

Now, even though my body goes, why care? my mind still speaks slowly, like through a fog, "You're supposed to. it's what the others want." And so continues the pretense, the fakeness, the lies.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just a little tired." Not that I remember what tired is anymore.

"You look a little sad."

"Nah, just without coffee. You know me, B.C. It's all downhill without my joe!" I joke, but really, why does it matter? Why do I still pretend. Why do i still pretend to care, to be here, when I'm not. I'm far away, where the stories I spin, the people I know, the exist. For real. Not just the squiggles on white sheets, or electronic screens.

Ha, what a loser I am. I spent a whole post that was supposed to be about drawing about some stupid made up concept in my head I'm fine.

Don't worry about me. Don't look any closer or it will be too hard to hide.

So now as I look back on my old journals, reading past just the usual drama and overly dramatic writing style I had as a kid, I still see the horribly bleak outlook I had on life. Whether or not it was healthy for me to write it out, it still happened. Only to prove after years of locking this up inside, it hasn't gotten any better.  

lolabunnytime lolabunnytime
3 Responses Mar 7, 2010

And **** that guy who says you'd be better if you were happier. You are YOU, and anything more than that will only hurt you. Normals and their advice... "Have hope!" they say. "Believe in yourself!" they say again. All this advice? It's just their own misconstrued idea of what you ought to be. It's like they're ******** on you. The feeling of oppression that comes with their advice is because you know deep down that they're plain WRONG. What they say, about hope, about belief, about faith, about happiness, it's all their own constructions. It applies to their type. But I say to them "you talk to me of faith, of joy, of hope, of love? You're no more than a rich man telling a poor man to work harder and all the world's gold shall be at his door the next morning" and then I LAUGH at them because they haven't the faintest idea of what's actually going on. It's sad. **** 'em.

You're a freak. You're life's bastard child. God screwed up with you. You aren't natural. You're like an alien, or "some government experiment that is outta controoool!!" But you know what? That's OK. Our parents, our friends, society, they all tell us that there is some attainable golden standard of health, in mind, body and spirit. It's some pure state of well-being, guru-being. But nothing that broad is ever totally right. The proof? You. You're "among those of whom people say they are just not meant for this world." The (sad?) fact of the matter is, some of us simply aren't fit to be in this so-called society of health. We're diseased. We're abnormal. Or maybe we're supernormal? Maybe the others are the freaks? You and I, we're the same. We're freaks. And like I said, that's OK. The suffering comes from resisting it. As children we did not know who we were, so we tried to be something we were not, just to fill the hole. It's as if we have no identity. We're totally lost. I imagine there are hundreds, perhaps thousands, of us, born into each generation. We are told, by some unseen imagining of our own fancy, some twisted Frankenstein monster in our psyche, compiled by the garbage we bought over the ages, that we must resist what we are. Why do we latch so readily to this resistance? Is it that we are afraid of embracing our true nature, our disease, and just RUNNING with it to the very end, leading us through scary avenues? But I say "rejoice in it!" We're sick. Or they're all sick. It doesn't matter who's sick. We are outcasts, and either we suffer in denial or we follow the sickly, vile, pestilent rabbit through his dark hole leading to God knows where. You may think you're alone, but that's only because there are SO few of us. It's almost impossible to find another. I think it's time to follow what we are to its end. No more lying to ourselves that we can get better. Leave the "health" to the normals. Fate: "realms of bliss, realms of light. Some are born to sweet delight; some are born to the endless night". Let us walk without fear or apprehension or regret through the end of the night. Peace be to all freaks.

you have a funny screenname though and havent killed anyone yet, so there is still hope.<br />
a poor attempt at humor miss, but seriously although you may not be able to draw for ****, you make one hell of a writer. an even better one if you would be a bit happier.