Do you remember?

I will attempt to write these sorts of posts occasionally. It will be a story about something that happened in my life. I feel like changing it up and talking about something different here and there will probably be good for me. I am so buried in all of this; I need air occasionally.

I must be about 10 or 11, but I recall the memory better than most current ones.

I’m at a friend’s house. We’re in the backyard playing with her brothers, as usual. We invent new games frequently, trying to keep ourselves busy during the hot California summers. Their lawn covers most of their property, and we are running around on it or gathered around their oversized trampoline. I remember this patch of clovers used to grow in the circle of shade beneath it, and there we’d lay down on our stomachs concentrated on that spot, searching for four-leaf clovers. 

But this day is different. We’re more restless than usual. I think I woke at dawn to watch the pink on the horizon through the lacy curtains of my friend’s bedroom window. For some reason, though I have always disliked mornings, my body always awakened me at dawn there. You could see a sunrise like no other from their porch, and I hate to miss it.

We pack a bunch of things, mostly junkfood. We’ve called round to several of the neighboring kids. A few of the friends of her brothers who had also spent the night as I had, come as well, and somehow we end up with a fair-sized group. We all go to the same school, so there are no strangers, even if we are mere acquaintances. We start up the gravel road, trying to decide who else we should bring with us.

It’s hot, I remember. There are no clouds in the sky, just that cornflower blue of a perfect day. We’re all wearing shorts and t-shirts and sweating nonetheless. Up the hill we walk, clustered together as though afraid to get separated from the herd.

It’s the dead of summer, so when we get to the pond it’s a dried, cracked bed of dirt, where even the weeds are struggling to grow. It’s like one of those old western moves where the ground is so dry it appears to have patterns. We are all laughing, recalling the Titanic incident, wherein the oldest brother built a toy model of the Titanic that he had gotten for Christmas then sunk in the pond one winter. One of the other boys dived in for a snake on one long-ago occasion, swimming in the murky, green water to snatch it up as it wriggled across the surface. He’d ended up soaked, and had walked back to the house dripping wet and grinning, carrying the garden snake for us to look at.

But it’s all gone now. There’s nothing to see here. We drink some water and start walking again. Cars pass every once in awhile, leaving us in a cloud of dust. It’s not as annoying as it should be. We are too excited to care, hurrying along up the winding path of gravel, toward the top of the sagebrush-covered mountain. We avoid the dogs, all of which snarl menacingly as we pass, or bark erratically from porches.

We’ve never gone this far before. There’s an abandoned trailer off the side of the road, squared, old. It has broad windows in the front that glare at us in the heavy sunlight. We’re all becoming ever the more drenched in sticky sweat. It makes me think of taking a dip in the swimming pool when we return to the house.

The boys are talking excitedly. The girls are off to the side, though my friend is wandering closer. I’m trying to talk them out of it. I make some weak protests, but they aren’t paying much attention, laughing at what they see as cowardice. And maybe it is.

 The first rock is thrown. Glass shatters. A hole is made, surrounded by an intricate spiderweb of cracked glass. Now it has begun, with that one action. All the boys are leaning down, grabbing rocks between already dirty fingers. It’s loud, the breaking sound. I cringe a little, wondering briefly whose house it is. I’m walking away from them, toward the edges of the group, still saying things to them, warning them of what could happen, telling them to stop. I’m not interested in getting caught, and instead of joining them, I keep moving further and further away, hoping they’ll grow bored with their game. But they are laughing and carrying on, trying to find a way inside.

Then there is a noise. A car maybe. I don’t recall what it was. Suddenly, fear seems to grip everyone. They’re wide-eyed. Someone is coming. We’ll get caught. One of the boys is the first to run, and it starts off a chain reaction. I won’t stay behind, so I follow.

We run, a group of kids frightened of consequences. Faster and faster, following the road. We’re shouting at one another, encouraging everyone to move as quickly as possible. It doesn’t take long. The fear hasn’t faded, but the energy has. The sun is leeching us of endurance and we’re slowing, whether we want to or not. The sprint turns into a jog, one that grows weaker and weaker until the group is nearly separated, the boys in the front, leading, the girls lagging behind. Finally we get to a walk, panting and looking back, afraid. 

Then we start laughing, probably in relief. And on we go. Somewhere along the way part of the group turns back, thinking we’ve gone too far. They’re complaining that it’s hot and too far to walk. For whatever reason, I refuse to go back, even though I’ll be the only girl left. They try to coerce me into leaving with them, but with a few words from her brothers, I shake my head, watching them leave. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea. We have gone really far and we’ll probably get into trouble. But I want to see what is at the top, and that desire is enough to outweigh any worries I have about getting reprimanded. I know the girls will be mad at me later, but I don’t care.

It takes a fair amount of time to reach the top of the mountain. It’s littered with huge boulders that we have to climb over, but we’re getting more enthusiastic, running over the clear spots. Now we’re going downward, through a cluster of bushes. Finally we climb over one of the biggest rocks yet, and there it is: the view.

We’re high enough above the brush that we can see all the way down the mountain. Our town is situated in a valley inside of it, and a the city lies far beneath it somewhere. We can see the lone road that cuts through the hills, the one everyone uses to get to the city, to ‘civilization’. I’ve never seen anything like it. The hills in the distance are just visible, green and rolling, and I feel like a bird watching the dot of a car descend the steep mountain. There’s a cooling breeze up this high, and I am thankful for it. I can feel the heat on my face, the sweat beneath my hair.

One of the boys is digging through a backpack, fishing out some fruit rollups that we distribute amongst the last of members. There’s a bit of talk about the others who left, but it dies out quickly. We stay for a long time, just talking. I remember wishing I had a camera.

I know that I won’t regret it, even if I do get in trouble. I have a lot to brag about when I finally meet up with the other girls at the house, all of which aren’t too thrilled to see me. I’m too happy to really mind.

A few years ago I spoke with the oldest of her brothers. He said to me, “Do you remember that time…”

All I said was, “of course I remember.”

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.

To keep.

There’s so much about this I don’t understand. Every time I open a new doorway, a million more appear for me to explore. It’s a labyrinth, and I’m beginning to think it will stretch on forever, if there is such a thing. It’s a dark, long road to either doom or hope; I still don’t know yet. I’ll face that door when I come to it. God, all I can do is speak riddles today.

I feel so wrong, standing there in my blue uniform with my pressed pants and hair pulled back. That person isn’t me. People always ask me how old I am. Even when I say 19, they still ask if I have children. It makes me laugh every time. And finally, the other day, I snapped a little, and said rudely, “I’m 19, of course I don’t have children.” All of the women are around 24-26 mostly married, and nearly all of them have 6 year olds at home. I can only look at them with amazement. Why? How could you? You are barely even done being a child yourself!

Imagine, this one girl I see frequently, had her first kid when she was twenty. One year from now, me, having a kid. The thought sends me into an absolute panic. The responsibility…. I almost can’t care for myself (let’s not even get into that…), let alone some infant that would be completely dependent on me. It’s just two very opposite lives, two extreme ways of thinking. Me, with my solitary, self-centered existence, and them working at a fast food restaurant to keep their kids clothed. It’s so fucked. I can’t understand them, that mentality. I simply cannot ever see that mindset applying to me. Everything that these people are is all that I am not. 

Another one of the girls at work is trying to befriend me, even suggesting we carpool (oh, the horror). I feel like this monster. I look over at her and find myself aggravated. We discovered we both moved to the area three years ago (and we lived near one another before too, apparently, which she thought was the greatest thing). Turns out we live a street away from one another currently, in the same subdivision. In fact, I think I figured out which house is hers. She was going on and on about things, and I could only swallow and grind my teeth as she went on to tell me how she hated where she used to live, how it was a terrible area and so on and so forth. My home. My beautiful home, was all I could think. Don’t you dare speak against it.

She inadvertently turned me against her with that insignificant conversation. That, and one of the first things she said to me in the morning was that she likes working in the front so that she can watch all of the hot men (she said this as she craned her neck around all the cooking equipment and giggled, pointing out some poor, unsuspecting individual who was prowling around the booths in the corner). That’s just not something you say to a person that you have met all of once. I don’t want to know. I don’t care. Girl talk is not something I can relate to or understand. Quite frankly, I find it fucking stupid, but you know, we all have our dislikes….   

I shouldn’t talk so badly of it. The people are extremely friendly. They always try to help you out. You have a tray in your arms, someone is usually ahead of you to open the oven, or take it from you. Today, my schedule got thrown out for some reason before I got to it. One of the guys dug through a pile of garbage and got it out for me. It was covered in grease and all manner of nasty things. I didn’t even ask him to. Shit like that makes me take a step back, as ridiculous as it sounds. Even the smallest kindness is not something I am used to getting from others.

I can’t begin to count how many times I’ve struggled while taking my mother somewhere, trying to get her wheelchair to some impossible place, with people walking around me not even giving me a second glance. I don’t even expect people to open a door for me. My whole perspective of humanity is usually down in the negatives, but at work, it’s either everybody helps everybody or we all fall behind. It’s different when there’s a paycheck involved, at least in this particular workplace. I’m grateful for that, because I know I could easily have been shoved into a situation with a bunch of assholes who weren’t willing to help me learn the ropes. Everyone has made an effort to teach the newcomers. In all honesty, I don’t think I could have had it much better. I may not have anything in common with anyone, and I may not have any inclination to befriend them or any of that, but I’m more than willing to be cordial with them, which is more than I can say for the majority of people I come across.

On a side note, I got payed. My first ever paycheck. I couldn’t be disappointed by my reaction; I saw it coming the first day of work. Not even the slightest sense of accomplishment, nothing but stony, cold silence in my head, no flip of my stomach or surge of excitement. I looked down at a check and just sighed. I don’t know where this is leading, but I guess the best thing I can do is not stop to think about it so much. It’s only money. It’s only life.

Rift.

I want to self-sabotage. I want to ruin everything and make sure there is no hope. I admit that. I don’t want this to work; for once I want the failure, if only for a reason, a little shove.

My mom was giving me a long talk this morning, the kind that is supposed to be comforting. She was telling me what I should do, I got annoyed, and said something like, “Yes, I know”, which prompted her to say some words, that at the time, I took the wrong way.

“You always make so many mistakes.”

A long pause.

“Why, because I’m a fucking failure?”

I said it out loud, I said it. I said it in that bitter, if-you-only-knew voice, and smiled grimly even though I knew I sounded childish. Of course she says she didn’t mean it that way. She makes the point that I always come back after doing something and talk about what I should have done, that I should try to be more prepared this time, since I always forget what I’m supposed to say or ask. 

Yes, because I can’t get anything right. I know. You wouldn’t believe how acutely aware I am of it.

It was just not the time to say it, not at all. I felt like it was all glaring back at me, laughing, mocking me. Sometimes I think the past is what kills me, more so than the future. It seems to transcend time and taint any positive thoughts I have left. I let it get to me, because in some ways, I feel it’s what I need to force myself to make some sort of move and end my idleness. I play it over and over because I want to drive myself crazy. I want to snap. I want to look at the world as more vile and ugly than anything else, and see not a single redeeming quality in it. Just to make it easy. Just to make it worth leaving, even if it isn’t entirely true. I’d use a lie if it could make it simple. I’d end as a hypocrite, quite contentedly.

I went to the city, did what I needed to do. Put resumes and cover letters in everywhere. I stopped by the Humane Society, put in an application and filled out some other papers so that they might call on me to volunteer sooner or later. It was very difficult at first, walking in, asking, when I feel so fucking inadequate. I have so much trouble just talking to people. And the more time I spend alone, locked away in this room with all the curtains drawn and the sunlight chased out, the more I let it take its hold.

But the numbness has grown worse as I predicted, and for whatever reason, after the first few times of approaching yet another customer service desk, it didn’t make my hands shake. I was nervous, but it was very diluted and vague, not quite the tangible thing I’m accustomed to. Instead, there was mostly tiredness and a voice in my head that told me darkly, that it is all so pointless. That voice of pitiless truth. Maybe that was why I managed to go through with it.

There always reaches a point where exhaustion is far surpassed, and a strange residual weariness sets in. Instead of walking, you slow to a crawl, dragging your feet, dreading every single step, almost counting them. I always tell myself when I start running, “Just imagine how much it’s going to hurt the further you go”.

I’ve kind of given myself a secret ultimatum. I don’t really like where either option leads, but these days I don’t seem to like much of anything to begin with. I feel like I am sort of at this turning point; perhaps it’s age, but nothing to do with legality or anything of the sort, just an inner feeling I can’t fully put into words. Compelled, is close to what I mean. I’m being drawn in toward something, or maybe subconsciously I am pushing myself in this direction. I think I want black and white, which I know isn’t all that possible, but in this case, it is, oddly enough. I’ve made it that way. I was afforded this one piece of control, this one meaningless life to fuck up if I so choose.

 I was irritable beyond belief for most of the day (my mom got the brunt of it, unfortunately), and putting on a fake smile made me grind my teeth. It took all day to get everything done. But everyone was very friendly; I didn’t meet one person who was rude or who wasn’t willing to help, which was a very pleasant change. When I finally did finish, I was in a better mood because I hadn’t any reason to be angry with what went on. It wasn’t what I expected, and though I had no appetite, I did not feel as ill as I had expected. I wanted nothing all day but for it to be over and night to fall again.

Done, for now. And night has indeed come.

Hiding away.

I’ve returned to my bizarre nightly schedule. The entire being awake before 1:00PM routine just isn’t for me, apparently. I only lasted a week. It’s 3:30 in the morning—I feel the tiniest bit delirious. 

I don’t know what is going on with me. I’ve been having nightmares, which never happens, and I’ve been shrugging everything off. I’m very Scarlett O’Hara lately, and fuck, tomorrow is another day, is it not? I haven’t even begun to think about the college thing, because each time I do, my stomach tightens and I feel the acids churning unpleasantly. I could try more places for work, but the truth is, I don’t feel like going through with it anymore. It’s a waste of time. People are going to go in and give a sob story about how they need a job to support their family, and I’m going to look like the privileged child who is looking for employment purely out of boredom.

Okay, the last part is half true. But hell, I would give my parents money if I could. We are always struggling. It’s hard to sustain three people when only one works, one is disabled, and the other is too stupid to have had a job previously. We’re such a motley group, mother with her love story obsession and 3 pound chihuahua, dad with his guns and fishing boats, and love of flowers, and me with my cats and loads of electronics that I sure the fuck don’t need, and mountains of horror movies that I watch through half-lidded eyes.  

I’m sinking deeper into the numbness for awhile, and it is much needed this time. I’m grateful. I want something to take over for awhile, that blessed autopilot. I know it is useless to say anything. I’m choosing to remain static in the world of chaos, as always. The dullness of it is so easy to fall back into. I forget sometimes that there is supposed to be something beyond this, that my laziness and safe position will not last forever. My parents will only tolerate me for so long. Sometimes I wish they would just give up on me; it would be easier that way. But I guess the truth is, I don’t deserve the easy way out in this situation; I’ve done it all to myself.

The dove is best part, because life goes on, doesn’t it?

Hopeless. Even more of a waste of time.

I understand perfectly well that nothing is fair. I get that it doesn’t matter if I’m depressed or suicidal—supposedly, unless I’m an utter failure, I should want the exact same things as everybody else, regardless of my personal feelings. If I’m depressed, it must be my fault. I should just take pills and stop whining.

But I won’t take pills. I won’t tell anything. Why live when I want nothing of what everyone else prizes so much? Their goals aren’t my own, the will to live is not my own. In all truth, I want nothing of anything; I want as far away from people as possible. I don’t want to participate in their sick little game and pretend to give a shit, because I don’t. I truly don’t.

I was watching a movie with my dad the other day, Jumper. I’m not fond of it, but he wanted to watch it, so I said nothing. He kept going on and on about how the main character should have used his powers for ‘good’. I could feel the little coil of revulsion twisting around in my stomach like a snake. Even he doesn’t get it. We are more different than I ever imagined, and each day that passes, I see that more and more. Everyone always claimed I was just like him, even I have said such things recently, but secretly…I’ve known. I’ve always known. He’s the hero sort…and me? Not so much. 

Heros and villains are practically the same; one has just deluded itself into believing that their purpose serves this thing called “the greater good”. They are only separate and different because of that single fact. But it is a tremendous difference. One has drive and will, the other has a lust for the kill. Generally, heroes are mistaken for villains. Just because a cause is ‘evil’ to one, does not mean it is the same for another. Killing a woman who had sex before marriage is perfectly normal in some cultures. Evil? No, it’s plain mercy to those who wield those beliefs. It is for the greater good to them.   

 I don’t want to save the world. I don’t even want to exist in it. And if I could teleport to where ever the hell I wanted, I would end up on some mountain in the middle of nowhere with a tent and a smile, poor, helpless citizens be damned. Let them suffer. They would turn me away given the chance, every last one. They already have, come to think of it. There are people all around, but the truth is that we are still all alone. So what does it matter? Why does anything matter anymore? This place has no purpose, no reason, and the more people struggle to make one, the more they show their weakness.

I may start attending college again. I haven’t decided yet. But if I do I’ll take five or six classes at a time and finish as quickly as I can. I don’t know if I can bear going back and participating in their useless bullshit again. It’s the people that kill me, more so than their stupid ideas. It’s the fact that they believe in their reasoning so deeply, when I stand back and tell myself again and again that what I think can change in an instant if I see anything the contrary. I contradict myself. And I don’t care. What is wrong with being wrong? Nothing. People don’t like to lose, so such things are hated. But I don’t care. Let me be wrong. Let me be right. At the end of the day it is all the same to me.

The awkwardness of living.

I left the house for the first time in at least a month, it might have been two; I have lost track of time. It’s strange, trying to integrate. I feel dissociative. I feel like I’m not a part of this place, just an observer, just someone watching with the flat affect, that humdrum numbness that is beginning to seep into everything. It is right sometimes, that apathy; it makes me perfect. It makes me…unaffected.

I didn’t feel any anxiety, more of an awkwardness. This hasn’t happened in a long time. There was no pulling from the bottom of my stomach, no lurch that made me want to run to the nearest corner and vomit. The cold sweat never came, my voice was quiet, but steady. Acceptance, I guess. Acceptance that though I am nothing to these people and they are nothing to me, in order to survive I have to tolerate them. It didn’t hurt; I can’t feel anything right now anyway.

I was standing in line for coffee. No, I didn’t force my mother to go get it for me; I took the money and went to the register myself without even thinking about it. She was on the other side of the store. It sounds like nothing, but my misanthropy and introverted nature have made simple tasks like that absolute torture. The looks, the eyes I can feel burning into me. The knowledge that my ineptness is completely and totally visible, that I am making a fool of myself before I even speak. This usually floods me, but not this time, not when everything is so impossibly cut off, disconnected. I’m more like something automated than something living.

The awkwardness came when I realized I didn’t know who was next; I assumed I was, but the woman behind me had moved toward the register and I just stood there. I blinked, thought about it, and stayed exactly as I was. I wasn’t in a hurry, and I really couldn’t care less if she went ahead of me. Then she tells me to go, smiling. I say sorry, and mutter something about not paying attention.

Again, this sounds normal. It sounds like any everyday event. But the fact is, standing in front of a cash register and having to order something and converse with an employee is more painful to me than something dying. I feel it like a tragedy. It builds like some sort of fucked up finale: standing, waiting, knowing that impending doom is coming for me. That soon, I’m going to have to talk to whoever is standing there, I’m going to have to feign that the last flitting thought through my head was not about sticking one of my hands into the blender sitting on the tabletop. Then, ding. I’m next.

I had a bit of a breakdown today. I threw a silent tantrum and binged on everything I could find in the pantry. I must have eaten two days’ worth of food (at least by my meager standards). I had to get my mind off of the thoughts, I had to concentrate on feeling something besides complete agony. Breathing, existing…it hurts more than anything sometimes. I wanted to sleep, but it seemed that no one would have it. The cat meowed, attempting to rip the tape I’d stuck to the bottom of my door to block out the sound of existence. I locked the door, but people tried to get in anyway. Finally I managed a few hours. I woke up ravenous and dull feeling. I ate sugar like it was a drug; I needed the shock to my system because I was feeling so incredibly low.

I hate these mood swings. My six month diet change has altered everything, made it all worse. I’ve menstrated twice this month, which to me is bizarre after having times in the past where I’ve gone years without a single period. But it makes me emotional in a very strange way. I cry for stupid reasons, but yet I don’t feel it…. How to explain…. It’s like I’m crying for how sad I am, but I’m using other things in order to pry the tears out of myself. So I’m not crying for the movie, I’m crying for the residules of whatever this is. The darkness. Because I can never cry for it. I never get to shed it; it just stays there, impervious to everything. Perhaps then, I do need to mood swings, if only to vent.

It’s ridiculous what effects me and what doesn’t. My boldness shows in some places, yet shrinks in others. I wore my corset to the stores, and didn’t cover it up with a jacket. Just didn’t care. I like it, I felt like wearing it. People stared and I didn’t care. Where I live isn’t exactly the place to dress up; I was out of place. How fitting. Sometimes I think I like that they know it, others…I’m not so sure. But why can I wear what I wish yet not present myself without feeling incredibly inadequate/out of place? I want to laugh at the sheer stupidity of it. 

It’s been a long day. I need more sleep.

Weak, ravenous.

I really love the winter, I do. I love the cold, the fact that if I go for a walk there’s no one out to bother me because they are all too wary of the freezing temperatures. I even like the snow, to an extent. But lately, I just haven’t been well. I feel almost like I have the flu. A lot of people talk about having the winter blues and whatnot, when to me, if there were to be an season I get particularly down about, it would be summer. That’s the time in which everyone is out and about, everyday, all day. So I guess I just like the opposite: I enjoy winter because of the lack of people (usually the reason people don’t like it…), and I hate summer because there are too many people. But goddamnit, sometimes it’s just too cold to go outside.

Anyway, I haven’t wanted to get up. Out of bed, I mean. I want to sleep and sleep, because I keep waking up exhausted for some reason. I keep thinking, “if I sleep until 5, I’ll only have to see my parents a few hours”, after which, I then can spend the night locked away in my room. Alone. Undisturbed. I can pursue my bizarre nightly activities and no one is none the wiser. And no, I’m not talking about something depraved, though I suppose there is always that too. I think I’m just to that point where I am going to do what I want, but I am still secretive enough about it that I can wait the entire day if I have to. That’s what the day is to me, really: a waste. All I do it wait for it to be over. If I lived in the city, I think I would wander it every night. As it is, I live in the middle of nowhere, and at night, when my brain is actually functioning and I don’t feel like I’m falling apart, I’m trapped inside a house.

I can’t drive anymore. I thought I’d finally have some sort of freedom, but we can’t afford the insurance for it. Until I get a job, legally I can’t drive my car because I’m a member of the household with a license and therefore have to be paid for on the insurance. So now I just don’t drive. I guess it’s not like I was anyway; I still am unemployed, so the idea of getting hit by another incompetent moron, yet again, is not something I like to think about.

I kind of hate cars, even though when I was younger I was quite obsessed with them, and still am to an extent. I’m just sick of dealing with my dad’s bullshit over all of it (and it’s never my fault, that’s the hilarious part; someone always hits me). Everytime there’s a fender bender, he acts like someone died. He gets all cold and quiet and won’t talk to anyone, like a four year old throwing a tantrum. I can’t help but get angry when he asks a stupid question like, “why don’t you drive the truck?” Oh I don’t know, maybe because it’s yours? If someone hit me in that thing or god fucking forbid I back into something because it’s like driving a semi, I would never hear the end of it.

I just feel…stuck, I guess. I keep thinking what I need to do is go out and date someone, then move in with them, just to get out of here. Sounds crazy, I know, and it’s not like I don’t care about my parents. I just want to be away, in a house where someone leaves for extended periods of time, someone I can ignore. I have this idea in my head of maybe doing exactly what it is I loathe. Getting married, just to get the fuck away. Selfish, cruel, sure, but it could work. I’d get a divorce, obviously, but I’d have someone to lean on for a few years before I fling myself out to wherever it is I want to go. I’m going crazy here, that’s the problem. I need something different. I’m so tired of feeling like I’m suffocating under all of these hopes and dreams my parents have.

Then again, this is just crazy talk. I’m stir crazy. I can easily just stay with my parents until I get a job and start saving for whatever. A house, I guess. I want a house. Somewhere far fucking away, where no one can ever bother me again. Where it’s just me. But that means years of staying here. Years and years. I don’t know if I’m cut out for that; it makes me feel so useless to be here, day after day. I’m never going to go back to college, I’m almost certain. There’s just nothing I want to do, no subject that interests me enough to pursue it, find a job in it, whatever. I hate all of this numbness. It’s as though I can’t formulate an opinion about it, what I want, I mean. I keep trying to think of something, but nothing comes out at me. It’s all the same dull grey, nothingness. It means nothing to me, because I mean nothing to me.

People are just a waste of time.

It’s the holidays. They’re getting to me. I feel like the damn grinch, but then again, perhaps that is good on my ego. I think everyone could use a bit more hating in their lives; it is soothing on the soul, or at least, the darker ones. Hating reminds me off all the pros that are stacked up with suicide, like the fact that I will never again have to face the world, or pretend that I give a flying fuck about anyone but myself.

I love nothing. I can’t love. Whatever that feeling is, I can’t feel even a semblance of it; it is a mere fantasy in my opinion, created by the same morons who decided that caging up the human populace in one small, confined area was the greatest idea. The same morons who think Christmas is more than just presents, or that you can’t live without someone beside you. Or that the point of life is fucking and spawning so that all your putrid genetics can get recycled in the disgusting gene pool of human filth.

I love nothing. Call it pessimism, negativity. Ha. I laugh in the face of your human ideals, the ones that hold no truth, just biases. And we all know, secretly, deep down, that it is all lies. Filthy fucking lies used to perpetuate a meaningless cycle. Keep you contained, keep you placid….

There is one law that negates all others: OBEY.

I’m supposed to like this, I’m supposed to want someone to share my life with, I’m supposed to want to do all the things that these fucking idiots find enjoyment in, when to me it is all just futility. You’re going to die. We all are. You can get new friends every five seconds, along with new husbands and wives, and it isn’t going to make a shit bit of fucking difference. We’re all rotting, dying, decaying, right now, this very second, and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do to prevent it.

It’s beautiful. It’s so fucking sickeningly beautiful.

All in vain...

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.