Keeping up appearances.

I think what I hate the most about having to be around other people is the smiling. That, and the pseudo-apologetic persona that I use to prevent storms from brewing when I am not in the mood to deal with any conflict. The other day a woman tried to order things from me while I was clocking in. I look up and inform her that I am unfortunately not trained to take orders and therefore don’t know how to use the machine. I always grin and say this politely, because it happens all the time. This woman says to me very rudely, almost under her breath, ”Well where is someone who can?” Oh gee, you know, I’m awfully sorry that my manager, who is over there kind enough to be helping with the chaos the grill people are dealing with, is delaying you from your greasy, disgusting food for ten seconds. Normally, when someone does this to me, asks me to do something I’m not sure/allowed to do, I’ll immediately go get someone who can. Instead I give her the grin that sometimes makes people back away from me, then I walk away without another word.

I went into a consignment store yesterday. One of the saleswomen was fluttering all around my godmother, completely ignoring me. This happens frequently, and I love it. Yes, please ignore me, I’m a shadow. Shadows don’t like to speak. They always think that because of how I’m dressed and how young I am, that there’s no potential money for them to claw out of me, which gives me the opportunity to shop without irritating interruptions or too much anxiety.

I actually found something that I liked, and couldn’t figure out which door was to the dressing room. I nearly went in the wrong room. I do things like this all of the time; I get nervous and I don’t pay attention to what I’m doing and I end up looking like an unobservant idiot. I’ve done some very embarrassing things while out, because I get stuck inside my head and put the rest of me on autopilot. I’ve walked into men’s restrooms before, broken things out of carelessness, and otherwise landed myself in situations where other people smiled at me sadly, as though they were thinking ‘wow, didn’t know they made things that stupid’. I do this at work too, and I’m sure by now that they think I’m a little slow in the head, because I repeatedly make mistakes, sometimes the same ones over and over because I am not mentally there. I either have no interest, or I’m too anxious to handle everything while I’m still thinking at full capacity. If I think, it will make me back out, give up, so…I don’t.

Anyway, it was ridiculous. I tried this dress on that was a little too small, but I really liked it and considered buying it since I keep dropping weight and would probably fit it just fine in a week if I wanted it to. Suddenly I was the center of attention. I awkwardly stood there letting my godmother state her opinion and all of that, and the saleswoman decided abruptly that I was the person to hound and flatter if she wanted to get at a wallet. I more or less got dragged to the mirror outside the dressing room, because the woman wanted me to look at it better. She said a bunch of the typical bullshit, repeatedly asserting that she’s a seamstress that could fix anything I don’t like about it, and that it was such a pretty dress and it was so me (she was very certain she knew…), and that it fit perfectly fine and I was lovely in it.

 The store was really small, so I knew some of the other shoppers were looking over at us curiously, and I was getting more stiff and unmoving by the minute. I pretended to examine it in the mirror, but was doing everything I could not to really look; I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to think about the fact that people behind me were looking, or that my godmother was looking or the saleswoman was looking. I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling horribly narcissistic for even thinking to try the thing on, and eventually managed to get away from them by more or less running to the dressing room. I stood in there for a moment, irritated and shy, trying to decide if I liked it. I decided that I did, and put my clothes back on as quickly as I could. I felt better with my suit of armor, and suddenly I was alright again, if not a bit jittery. I even let her have my mailing address because my defences felt too drained for me to argue with any real conviction.

I ended up putting it on hold, and went back at the end of the day and bought it after some thought, because I decided that it was me, at least the person everyone sees and believes is me. The manipulator. She wears dresses. She’s not a boyish misanthrope that covers herself up with layers of clothes and shrinks away from others. She smiles. She likes people. She treats them well and is always polite. She never thinks about how much it would please her to shout at everyone to stop fucking staring. She would never think to give the smiles that I give, the ones that are all threat and no happiness, and always follow as an unconscious reaction to some sadistic thought. She would never do that, think that. No, not her.   

Because she’s exactly what they want her to be.

Don’t look back.

I don’t like turmoil. I think everything is still building as it was before, going toward this insane climax that I am trying to ignore. Things keep stopping and starting, and I miss the sense of sameness that I am so used to.

The other day, my mom decided to have another of her moods. She gets distraught over things very easily. I don’t quite remember what it was (yes, it was that important), but she was bitchy when I got up, and she was pretty rude when I said good morning to her. I happened to be in an alright mood (a rarity for mornings), so it kind of irritated me, but I just thought to myself, “whatever” and rumaged around the kitchen, pointedly ignoring her. I could hear her talking on the phone, sounding tired and monotone.

She always changes her voice when she’s upset about something. She loses inflection and kind of croaks things out as though her throat is sore or something, and it really pisses me off for some reason. Maybe because I feel like that all the time but I don’t have to make a fucking show of it to get some sympathy.

So I decide I’m going to go out since it is relatively sunny, and I shower and get dressed and all of that, then go back into the livingroom to tell her that I’m leaving for awhile. She’s sitting there in front of her computer playing solitaire. Her head is bowed down and she’s crying. I can tell from across the room, even.

I say it flatly: “What’s wrong.”

It’s not even a question, because I know she’ll elaborate. She’s like that. If I do something that bothers her she goes straight to my dad with it, like a child that doesn’t know how to handle a problem. And she always sits there and prattles on about things to me, things she knows I don’t give a shit about. I have told her on more than one occasion that I could easily go into a monologue about the digestive system if she wants to keep talking about the price differences on food from different stores. We’re nothing alike; our interests are like night and day. Finding things in common is quite difficult, which is probably why we often fall into constant arguing.

Of course, she jumps on the chance to have someone to talk to. I know she’s lonely, but fuck. It’s not like anyone is going to pay me the same courtesy. She goes onto explain the whole thing, and blah, blah, blah. I’m standing there with a helmet in my hand, impatiently waiting for her to finish. I don’t bother to tell her that I’m missing half of what she’s saying because I have my headphones on. She doesn’t notice. But I make it obvious that I’m not in the mood to commiserate.

All I say is “Yeah.” 

She wants to say more, I can tell, but my heart is like ice to her. I don’t know what I feel toward her anymore. I’m a physical guardian, it seems, nothing more. It does not go beyond that much of the time, and it scares me a little. I should feel bad, try to help, but all I can think of is all the times I suffer alone, constantly. The ache of misery never leaves me, even if I am number than numb. I am not a savior, and I refuse to be hers. She can mourn her loss all she wants, I will not stand by her and offer my shoulder. Those times are gone.

I look at her. I sigh, more out of annoyance at being delayed than anything else.

I walk away.

Seeking truth, telling only lies.

There are some things that have to be kept quiet. Not because you are ashamed, but because you acknowledge the fact that if you reveal your bizarre ideas/habits to others, you risk complete alienation from your lifesource. Unless you are an entirely independent person, the unfortunate truth is that you are often forced to conform, whether you like it or not.

The truth is, I despise being the liar. I can’t fucking stand it. It’s horrible. I want more than anything to be able to say to my parents/godparents the same things I say to strangers. I want to be open. I want to be able to not give a shit about what I say, because in all honesty, I’m a very no fuss sort of person. I like to be blunt, get to the point. It’s only when I want something that I resort to being mysterious.

The longer I’m here, the more I see how distant I’m becoming. Things pile up, and I have to make more lies to accomodate. More and more weird obsessions/desires, ones that I indulge in privately. Fixations I would call them. Not normal ones, mind you. Things that are blatantly fucking strange, that even I don’t fully understand or want to analyze. Some things are better left in the dark, I guess. I am not one to deny myself things; it can be both beneficial and horrible at the same time. I don’t believe in barring myself from something unless the pain of doing so is somehow pleasurable.

I don’t know anymore. I keep thinking I’m getting sicker, more numb, more apathetic. More misanthropic. And it’s just making me eccentric.

Eccentric. I’ve always said it is just a fancy term for fucking psycho.

The biggest liar wears the most yellow grin.

I don’t like the word weak, nor do I like the thought of ‘powerless’. But the one thing in my life that I don’t question, that I simply go with, are all the lies. It seems that in order to live life, there is no choice but to lie if you would prefer to be left alone rather than being constantly pestered. Not that anyone would pester. I don’t think anyone cares that much. They don’t even feign that. But they do bother to an extent, and the last thing I want is to end up on the other side of a shrink, talking about my bullshit life and pretending to have enough emotion to truly care where it leads me.

There’s always the question of, ‘how are you?”, or “how are you doing?”. All I want to say is “why should I fucking tell you when you don’t care anyway? Isn’t that a bit pointless?”. If I said, “I feel like I’m dying”, what would anyone say? All it would be is an awkward moment where the person opposite me has to ponder a so-called ’socially acceptable’ answer. You get the people who care for five seconds, then move on when the situation isn’t stimulating enough for their drama receptors.

I won’t lie, not here. The truth is, I’ve stopped caring about the apathy; I expect it at every turn, just like I figure the sun is going to rise even when I’m dead and buried—or burned, I suppose. Cremation is cheaper sometimes. The world is apathetic, I am apathetic, numb. What does it matter who is what?

It gets sad though when you lie to everyone, even the people you don’t hate with that overwhelming loathing. I want random pedestrians to die about as much as I want the most self-righteous, biggoted assholes to die. Is that really so wrong? Is there a crime against hating everyone equally? But yet I put up the whole ‘mask of indifference’ and pretend that I don’t loathe the entire world to those that would hate me for it. If I told the truth there would be nobody, and right now, I am in no position to have nobody, no matter how much I might wish for it at times. 

The rest of the time though, walking down the street, moving through the abandoned shopping carts at some packed superstore, there is, for a half an hour, the real me. I am awake for once, not concealed beneath layers of insanely secure barriers where my conscience practically sleeps in wait. The only lie are the clothes I wear, the way I make sure my hair is neat, even though I couldn’t truly give any less of a flying fuck that I am alive and breathing.

There is something honest about being in a crowd that surprises me. I don’t blend well, I don’t try. It’s strange to me that I am more ‘me’ when there are strangers around than when there are people I respect and am loyal to. Perhaps I don’t want them knowing the real truth? That seems funny to me for whatever reason. But I’m biting in public, alternated with a sickly sweet condescending sort of politeness that no one is ever smart enough to read into. I open doors, say thank you, excuse me. I wear a fake, sarcastic smile. I feel…good. I am letting them know exactly what’s there, but they either do not see or do not care. And that is just fine. Let them be blind to it. I wear many faces, and I indescriminately despise, because there is nothing else that pleases me more.

In truth, in such a place as this…there is nothing else. I don’t expect more. It does not exist, not for me, never for me. I think dwelling on the more unpleasant aspects of life makes it more real. It’s a bit like the difference between watching some sappy romantic comedy, then watching a drama. The romantic comedy looks and smells fake; even the character’s lines aren’t all that believable, too ‘larger than life’ to be reality. The with the drama you ask yourself, ‘can life be that bad?’. Then when you sit down, reflect on your life for five minutes, suddenly it hits you: yes it can. Perspective? Sure. If you say so. Maybe reality just isn’t your thing.

There’s been good, sure. But it is so damn far between that I have to concentrate to find it, and when I do it is drowned out by dull shades of grey. Like a beautiful, bright painting that had a future, but got drenched in old, filthy grey water. The cup just fell over, and suddenly, the pretty parts are all gone. Now it’s all clouded together, the colors bleeding out. It’s broken, you can’t fix it. Once it’s ruined it is gone forever.

I’m stuck on bleak. I should take pills like the rest of the world and just stopping being so melodramatic, yes? Maybe I don’t want pills. Maybe I don’t want to cover up reality and dress it up as something perfect like it isn’t. Maybe I don’t want to be a coward and hide from the disgusting world outside my door, go on every single day like it isn’t there, like things are just fucking inconceivably perfect. That would be a lie. And we all know I don’t need any more of those.

I hate me, the world hates me (even if they haven’t all met me yet), and that doesn’t even matter. What matters is I am wrong. Humanity is wrong. Broken. Fucked. And I can’t get the hell away from it, no matter how many steps I take forward or back. I’m stuck, with shitty options on all sides. Die or live, those are the choices. They both have their drawbacks, life even moreso. So the question is, as always, what to do?

I’m getting nowhere here. It just goes and goes and I watch it go by. I’m tired of participating, tried of trying and getting slapped in the face for it. Maybe I am giving up. Truly. I hate to do that, but each time I move forward there is something that nullifies the good feelings it should bring. I have no pride for what I’ve done, just blatant indifference. If there is no happiness in doing things, then what else do I have? Do I need to start liking the bad, be one of those ridiculously optimistic types that smiles when their face is a bloody pulp and the world shits on their face? Is that what I need? Because clearly, whatever I am doing now is accomplishing nothing. This is stupidity, what I am doing. I should not live if I am so damn unhappy with no options to change things that won’t further my hatred and discontent.

Maybe I am just being a stubborn moron. I don’t know anymore.

We have only ourselves to blame…and the stupid people, don’t forget them….

I think I’m supposed to be happy right now. It’s hard to tell anymore. What people call improvement is clearly a matter of perspective….

Call me a kill joy, but I think it’s pretty fucking pathetic that I only drove once (for about ten minutes) since the last time I took my driving test, and yet somehow everybody suddenly believed ‘oh, it can drive now!’. Yes, I passed. But upon hearing what I just told you, doesn’t it make you frown just the tiniest bit? It’s sort of sad really. All I did was drive around the block about ten times before I took the test and remembered the spots where I messed up, and viola!

I have to say though, my tester person this time went pretty easy on me compared to the last one. He was quite nice, actually. When I finished, he didn’t tell me whether or not I passed, but immedaitely asked me how I thought I did, and what I thought I hadn’t done as well on…. The man was damn sadistic….waited like…two minutes to tell me. He keeps going on about how I need to observe more, which is true, I didn’t observe well (too nervous), and he’s drawing on the paper and scaring the shit out of me…. The all of a sudden, he just writes “passed”. Flare for the dramatic? Yeah, not exactly a good thing to test on a suicidal person…. And I drove a little slow. Went 20 instead of 25 because there were school zones everywhere and I was being paranoid. But I didn’t fuck up any lane changes, so yay, I suppose. Technically, I think I was right on the brink of failing, but he told me he knew I was really nervous. Well, at least everyone in the world isn’t completely blind and apathetic yet. Makes me feel vaguely hopeful. Fuck, doesn’t that sound optimistic?

I don’t plan on driving again any time soon, except maybe to go to the store to spend money I don’t have. Ha.

It’s the idiots’ fault, the morons who made all of this shit up. I blame it on them. All these stupid things we have to ‘test’ people, whether it be a test to graduate, a driving test, a placement test, what the fuck does it really show us? Nothing. Nothing but somebody facing their fears and getting the fuck over it while being lying and sycophantic the entire way. It isn’t us. Just like it isn’t us when we take a personality test for a job, just like when we act polite but aren’t sincere, just like when we pretend to care, but don’t. Hmm. It’s something to think about.

Glad it’s all over though. I don’t know if I could have made it through that bullshit another time; I was on my last limb there. Over. Done with. Gone. I’m sure when I wake up tomorrow I’ll at least feel a partial weight lifted. I’ve got a lot of things to do, but that’s one thing I can mark off the list. I’m unfortunately too numb at present to really jump for joy or get excited, which is…infuriating. Just know that I would if I could.

Eternal Darkness

I just woke up about ten minutes ago (keep in mind it’s 4:00 in the afternoon…). I’m guessing it’s the depression that’s causing me to sleep so much and just feel perpetually exhausted no matter how much sleep I actually get. When I wake up I don’t feel…rested. I sleep so long that I can’t discern the time anymore when I wake; I’ve started having to keep a clock by my bed.

The moon is bright some nights. It’s as though someone is shining a light in through my window, and it makes it difficult to fall to sleep. As a kid I used to sleep with the light on, I did it for years, but now I’ve resigned myself to the fact that if there is any scary monster lurking about in my room, then I’ll just have to get out of bed and stab it with some sharp, pointy object, because I fucking love the darkness. When it’s black like a shadow, no one can see you properly, and every movement has to be studied. It’s quiet in the dark, and even if there are people there, I can’t see them….

I think I wrote about it awhile ago—at the beginning of summer—that I covered over my windows with dark sheets. Now even the moon can’t bother me, and the sun is more or less forgotten even at its highest in the afternoon. It has no hold on me, except at sunset. I have to leave the house before it gets too low, or else I’ll be out in the forest in the black. I would love to walk there at night…but every time I stay to long I see the beams of headlights and realize that my parents came searching for me….

I don’t really believe that people care anymore. If they do, then to me that signifies their own weaknesses, their own shortcomings. But the fact is, that caring never lasts forever. There have been so many people that I used to talk to, both friends from school or friends on the internet that just…stopped talking. I accept the fact that every relationship is only temporary, and because of that there is hardly reason to pursue such things. I always spent years on my friendships; perhaps it’s my stupidity. I believed that my own feelings were reciprocated, when they never actually were.

Every part of my life has been consumed by my own hate. I’ve let it be so, but at the same time I feel that the world has given me no alternate path. I drown in my own choice, this decision that everyone tells me isn’t possible. Yet…why do I like it so much?

Life without people makes for a world that’s truly free.

Lonely? Not in this world, not for these people….

I feel like the living dead sometimes. It’s as though I’ve been walking around so long without any higher emotions, that normal needs have ceased applying to me altogether. I suppose it could be the misanthropy, the solipsism, or just my overall bitter attitude. But I won’t blame those things, not when they have been the only reasons I haven’t taken a gun to my head yet, or a knife to my chest.

I’ve been thinking about knives a lot more lately. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to actually feel the pain, watch the blood…. It’s a much more interesting form of suicide, and not so…dull as just blowing brains out of my skull in a glob of tissue and bone. I wouldn’t get to see that, which somehow makes it…less satisfying.

Late nights of crying isn’t helping anything. I really no longer see any reason for tears; nothing can shed true sorrow, it stays forever, like an ink stain. You can’t wash such things away with water. Water does not purify, it pollutes, kills. It is just one more bland, useless action of the human body, like smiling. Stop fucking smiling.

I try to convince myself that I don’t need anyone, and in a sense, it is true. I don’t need anyone. Having other people near me will do nothing but slow the process that’s already started, the transformation that can’t be stopped. There is nothing that can turn the mush of a caterpillar inside its chrysalis back in a caterpillar; it’s either butterfly or nothing at all. Sometimes the process goes wrong…that caterpillar that was so hopeful never makes it past the liquid stage and just dies instead, all in vain. Some mistake that can’t be fixed or made better.

I lay awake in a tangle of sheets every night trying to remember why I even bother. I loathe the thought of being involved with anyone, the strings that would be invisibly attached…. But at the same time I feel this heavy weight in my chest with the knowledge that I will never be able to openly relate with anyone in the way I would like to. No one could ever accept what I am, what I could be. No one knows that side of me, because that’s where the monster rests. It’s the monster’s domain, not mine, yet we dwell in it together sometimes, and it placates me with whispers that none of the human things really matter. The truth is, I will only ever belong to myself. I am the only one who will never fear that side of me, the only one who embraces it for all that it is, takes it without question….

I speak of nothing, yet of everything. There are so many words I want to say that instinct tells me cannot be said. I risk exposure by telling the truth. I won’t even write it in my journal, the one that’s sits on the shelf…. I won’t admit it out loud, for fear of being heard…. I want to purge myself of the poison, yet I know that the poison has to stay, or I’ll never have another chance…another opportunity to die by my own hand rather than by the laws of the universe. It has to be done, it has to be endured.

People will not make me happy, that is the sad truth. The one thing that makes life ‘livable’ to other people is the thing that’s destroying me. I need to be alone, completely, irreversibly so. I need to lose myself in selfishness, so that I can finally be okay…. No pangs of loneliness will drive me to go to others, no matter what the situation. People mean exposure. People inspire nothing but hate from me, they make me wish even less to be alive.

The world says, “People make life good”, and really, I know now that that is the only reason I feel loneliness on those rare occasions. It has been dictated to me from birth, just like it was dictated to everybody else. All part of an elaborate plot to keep the collective together rather than allowing it to break off into separate parts…. But I am a separate part, have always been. That is why people bring nothing but pain. I am a different design, one that feeds on survival, pleasure and pain. I am humanity at its most primal, which is why this world hurts so much, why existence is so futile and meaningless to me. I am not free. I am not where I am supposed to be. I am the lone wolf that struggles on its own instead of bearing the position of the lowest in the pack…. I run from responsibility because it will tie me to this world, a place I never wanted to be.

More difficulties…to be expected, I guess.

I didn’t sleep incredibly well, but I did get rest, which is the most important part. My stomach is no better, and my thoughts are still on things they shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t expect things to suddenly be better overnight. It will take time, and I am just going to have to be patient and accept that, even if I hate it.

My godmother is taking me shopping today. We’ll have to see how I do. I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday, so needless to say that hasn’t really helped me feel less sick. Even the thought or smell of food makes me want to stand over a garbage can. I’m just glad I managed to force something down yesterday, even if it was almost nothing. That is some accomplishment. I’m still breathing, right? I’m glad that I can write all of this out, it lifts a huge weight off of my shoulders.

I forget sometimes how much emotion (or lack of) can affect me physically. I’m so used to burying it all under layers of lies that it is strange to me when the layers come off and leave me vulnerable. I feel so dead inside.

Gods are people that are cleverly selfish; gods are things of deceit

Each moral is a vanity,
Every law a lie
There is no such thing as happiness
Settle for violent discontent
Everyone vies for first touch; the corruption of innocence
All is to my distaste

The desires are truly a pursuit of life
Abstinence is a wish for death
Every pretty little lie makes me stronger;
It is the world I wish to contaminate

Those people so contemptible
Stand by and swallow my lies
Serve the one that blasphemes the best
Let me sever all of your useless ties
Now build me up to be your martyr, your new dutiful God
Betray my trust, tear down my loyalty
Watch as your God dies

Lick the red from the dirt
Gaze upon my dead eyes
Let me decompose in my world so perfectly constucted
Let my soul drift away
Ask me why I leave you to die alone,
Ask me why I leave you to suffer and toil
I’ll simply say,
“For those horrible things you did to me”

Nobody gives a damn about you, or anybody else.