Life

It was a very trying day. It started out well, but quickly disintegrated. I spent most of the day shopping with my mother in the city. For some reason, my anxiety really kicked in today. It seemed like I got cornered at every store I went to, salespeople perpetually dogging my footsteps and trying to get me to look at things.

Within an hour I was becoming rude and irritated. I went into one store and must have gotten bothered by about four salespeople in a span of fifteen minutes. My mood just dropped. I have enough trouble interacting as it is, and this only made the problem worse, because I soon found myself dreading walking into another store. I got snippy with my mother, annoyed by the people, and I virtually forgot what it was I was doing there, and only wanted to go home. I hate how fucking easily I let myself get into those moods. I get misanthropic to the point where I want to go back to the car and sit, just to be away from everyone, to have some downtime to recover.

I eventually started leaving my mother in stores, telling her that I was going to go look in a different one (we were in a mall). But in truth, I found myself pacing the length of the building, trying to relax a little. When I finally went into a store, again I was bombarded by people selling things, and simply walked out.

I was searching for jewelry in one store, where one guy in particular wanted to talk to me. I never really know how to handle those kinds of situations. What really irks me, is the fact that a few years ago that sort of thing never would have happened, yet now it happens regularly. Because I was fatter before, apparently I wasn’t worth anything, now, suddenly, people take interest. I will never understand that kind of vanity. It makes me feel cheap, and like the world is nothing but petty. I always find myself being defensive and irritated when it happens, like I’m trying to even some score I can’t see. I seem to think, “well, you wouldn’t have wanted me before, so now that I have the opportunity, I’ll reject you first”. I guess it’s a stupid way to be, but I can’t help it. I feel like if anyone is even remotely interested, it’s for a bad reason, and because of that I refuse to give anyone a real chance.

The point of the whole trip was to buy my mother something for Christmas. Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. Eventually, though, we ended up going to a few more pleasant stores, where we were finally left alone. I even bought a few things and started to feel better. We sat down and had something to eat, taking our time. I just wish it could have been like that the whole trip.

Tomorrow I will probably go to the ocean. The beach. I look forward to it. I haven’t stopped thinking about it for the longest time.

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.

Worst nightmares aren’t so terrible when you live them.

I can’t think of anything more horrible than having a bunch of neighbors milling around my yard. Truly, there is no thing that irks me greater than having my personal sanctuary violated by indolent, rubber-necking strangers. I just couldn’t believe we invited them to be there.

 They always gawk; that is the way of people in tiny backwater communities. But having a yard sale around here is like some grand event. The termites crawl out of the woodwork to inspect the goods. It had to be done, I suppose. Our garage is like tumor that just won’t stop growing. So many storage containers piled halfway to the ceiling, making a miniscule (and very precious) void to park vehicles. Technically it’s a four car garage, but Christ, you wouldn’t know it. We had to get rid of some of it, and why not make some money while doing so?

But three hermits having this sort of thing is weird. Everyone was clearly intrigued, plastered to their car windows every time they went by our house. Not that they aren’t always…we’re like the haunted house on the block. Too neat to fit in, too distant. They watch us. Even our acre of property isn’t protection from their constant stares.

It used to be I could walk out into my yard with nothing on, or half dressed. Our old house had so much property, all atop a steep hill. I could do whatever the fuck I wanted, and our two neighbors, the wife beater & wife to the right, karaoke family to the left (you could hear their screeching across the canyon—goddamn those loud amplifiers), couldn’t have given any less of shit. They couldn’t even see our house, and the thought of coming over and saying hello never entered their conscience.

Those were the good old days, back when I couldn’t walk up the hill to visit my goats without fear of ticks and poison oak. But fuck, the damn solitude and beauty of the place made up for it. I found out recently, that the family who bought our beautiful little house couldn’t make the payments. It’s all empty atop that hill, where one pine tree, the same age as all the others, has grown twice as tall from all the childhood pets I buried beneath it. I guess that saying is true: you don’t know what you had till it’s gone.

Don’t get me wrong, the woods here are amazing, but they aren’t lush and green like I remember so fondly from when I was a kid. There are no leaves here to change with the season, no lovely reds and oranges and yellows. The ground isn’t that almost black, incredibly rich soil that used to grow anything. You’re lucky if you can get a rugged little pine tree to grow here without complaint. I like it, but it’s not my home. I still don’t feel like this is it, “The Place”. I know that if I do come into money, I will easily leave this place behind. Someday, maybe I’ll go back home again. 16 years is what it took for it to root into my heart, and as ridiculous as it sounds, I know it will never be fully replaced. Now I’m telling another story….

Today stretched on forever. I was a little homesick, for the first time since leaving. It’s been so long, so I really don’t get why I feel it now, of all times. But all those people invading and looking around, just made me miss my little ‘cottage’ on the hill. We never would have thought to have had a yard sale there.

I dealt with the people. I had to put up signs the other day, and when I was hammering one into the ground near the highway with the blunt side of an axe (yes an axe; someone misplaced the hammer), two boys rolled down their windows and shouted obscene things at me. There parents were in the car with them, too—that’s great parenting for you. I grinned, completely disgusted, and waved my axe at them. 

I placed people’s purchases in the bags, and stayed out of conversation for the most part, when it was avoidable. It was very hot today, but I wore long sleeves and gloves and kept my hair down to keep the sun at bay. I get burned so easily here, that I constantly have to cover up and suffer because I know I’ll end up red if exposed for a mere five minutes. Even sunscreen isn’t all that effective, so I slather it on repeatedly. I’m like one of those stereotypical nerds people make fun of when they go to the beach. I never see daylight except behind sunglasses and long sleeves. I should feel foolish, and people always comment, but I don’t bother caring anymore. Oh well. You think I’m weird? That’s grand. It probably didn’t help that I wore all black clothing, was somewhat dusty, and smelled like a gasoline canister. Quading clothes from yesterday. I didn’t even wash my hair, though it had that scent of engine exhaust to it when I went to bed last night. It’s like an aphrodisiac. I want to bottle that smell. Maybe I should work somewhere with cars.

So many people said, “You’re that girl who goes walking!” It was a bit disturbing to think about. But they bought my shit, useless shit I don’t want anymore, so I guess they can be tolerated. It was life story day too, like at college. I tried to talk to someone over IM about this, and she more or less said I was an ass for getting irritated with people who were trying to build an acquaintance. Well, I dunno, when you first meet someone at college, and this girl tells you that her boyfriend was shot in some horrible accident and she went to such and such elementary school, such and such junior high, and such and such high school, and her parents were over for Thanksgiving from whatever state, and that last night she had blood in her stool—and oh, do I think she should go to the doctor—-is a little too much information for a first introduction? And no, I did not just exaggerate, believe it or not. This really happened. In all honesty I don’t think I’m being overly harsh when I say, blatantly, I just don’t give a fuck. I’m not apologetic about it either—I just don’t.  

This is turning into five posts in one, but anyway…. It went okay. It wasn’t total doom or anything. I didn’t die, or run inside and hide in my room. I faced the beast and he pissed on my clothes rack and it wasn’t so bad (that was actually someone’s dog, but I digress…). I did eat enough ice cream to stock up for next winter, and binged on every food imaginable from all the stress after the day was complete. I drank White Russians and ate birthday cake that wasn’t mine, and went quading in the heat and saw three deer. It was like I lived a week of my general dullness in one day, and it felt like overload.  

I have to get up and do it again tommorrow. Damn.

See it through…if only for proof.

I’ve been caught up in reading, consuming my waking moments in dark, cruel characters that are always on the brink of suicide. Rampant self-destruction. It’s funny that these things almost propel me in a way; they provide some weak, watery resolve in me. It shatters in the dark though, always does. When I’m lying there, thinking about how useless my toiling truly is…it all just falls away, then glares back at me like the fragments of a mirror. So many little pieces, my pathetic reasoning cast aside in one fluid, hopeless motion. It’s so easy to fall into the darkness, to let it take over the living aspect of this, to be my automated savior that does the awful deed of existing for me.

Tomorrow I go to where my dad works. They’re having some sort of job fair that I’m being forced to go to. I already put in my resume for a few jobs, but I know that with my useless talents it will do absolutely no good until they see my face. I know that’s one of the reasons I haven’t been hired; my anxiety was always too strong to permit me to bear the thought of facing a possible future employer face to face, where through sheer humiliation and misery I would have to list just how much I am unqualified with a fake, disgusting grin. I’ve never been one for begging. And to me, that’s what it would be.

I don’t feel it today; my apathy has been washing over me the last few weeks, thickening like a fog until I am blinded to all else. It’s best that I don’t feel it. It’s best that I’m distant when my failure—my hopefully final failure—becomes apparent to everyone. I already have seen it coming, but they are ignorant of it. 

I lie in wait for it to be over. For that last precious shred of my sanity to be torn away, where my stupid, weak mind catches up to the fact that has been blatantly clear to all other sides of me for some time: I am doomed to fail. It was meant to be this way. I don’t belong here.  

I wish for it to be over. I wish not to have to do it myself, that one damn pardon. But I know that I am the only salvation now, that I always was. Let it be done, let it be finished. I just can’t bear to breathe and know what I know anymore.

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.

The road to nowhere leads to me….

I’ve been surprisingly busy lately—mostly writing. I’m vaguely enjoying it, though at times I get irritated, because I realize that in the end it’s all useless.

I’ve applied for a few more jobs, no replies, which is to be expected. I’d like to get a job by Christmas, but that might not happen, unfortunately. I was hoping I could get my first check before then, so that maybe I could give my parents something for Christmas. I don’t even care what I do at this point; I’ve applied for various jobs that have little to do with one another.

Lately I’ve been considering joining up with the Marines or the Navy or something. It’s what I first considered when I turned 16 and graduated; I knew I could leave right then if I wanted to. I just don’t know if I’m cut out for it, as I get depressed so damn easily, and am pretty much always in such a low mood. I don’t want to live with a bunch of people or have to deal with them on a constant basis. I hate being ordered around and told what to do, and honestly I have no idea what I would do in that sort of environment. I would either revert back into myself or lash out, depending on how much it impacts me. The last thing I need is to get into trouble. But I figure my chances for death would at least be a hell of a lot higher than they are now. Maybe it would be enough for me to finally get pushed over the edge and do something about it instead of bitching and whining all of the time. I guess all I’ve been thinking about recently are the best ways to die or put myself at a higher risk.

I don’t know, and I don’t really care. I’ll keep applying for jobs and see what happens. If nothing, then I suppose I’ll just take it from there, then decide what it is I want to do with this wasted piece of life.

History Repeats

Failed the test again. It was sort of ironically evil too, because the lady had barely written on her paper at all, so I figured I’d probably passed. I did well on everything this time, but I missed a weird turning lane, twice apparently. Honestly, didn’t know it was a turning lane… I’ve never been to the town I took my test in. But this time I didn’t mess up on anything else. I found out too that the kid who went right before me, the reason he failed before was also that fucking invisible turning lane, which makes me feel a bit better.

The lady commented that if I did get my license she would be a little worried, which pissed me off and made me want to reach across and strangle her. But I kept my calm and smiled my happy (but actually), sadistic smile. She thinks I “need more practice” because I’m too “unsure of myself”. Yeah, well, if you had social anxiety, got shoved into a car with a person you barely knew, then were observed the entire time by that stranger, while meanwhile driving around in a completely unfamiliar area… how the fuck would you feel? You fucking people are lucky I can pull off numb instead of being a wreck of nervousness like I feel on the inside. And believe me, that nervousness…people wouldn’t be able to handle that sort of uncertainty. I’ve been driving since I turned 15. I know how to fucking drive by now, believe me. This is why I get road rage, because I can actually use my blinker and change lanes without cutting anybody off, which to people in this state is something strange and new.

What do I care? I’m sick of this bullshit anyway. I’ll probably fail again when I take my next test. If I fail five times I have to wait a year. Isn’t that lovely? Its like “let’s make this impossible, so that any suicidal deranged teens taking the test can kill themselves before it’s all over”.

In better news…. I ended up going shopping afterward. It took me about fifteen minutes to brush off the crying this time, which means I’m getting over it about 75% quicker. Or just becoming more numb…depending upon how you want to look at it. So I bought some left over Halloween stuff, which I might take pictures of later. Went out to lunch. Then we went over to the Goodwill for awhile because I was trying to find a candlabra for the black candles I bought. I ended up messing around with this leather trenchcoat I found, caught between wanting to buy it, yet hating how much it cost.

I finally tried it on, and much to my surprise, because I’ve lost weight, it fit nicely. A few of the buttons had fallen off, but were being sold with the jacket. What was funny was that there was nothing else wrong with it, no tears in the leather or anything, just the buttons that needed to be reattached. It’s about down to past my knees, kind of this rusty red color, which was really funny because I was wearing a shorter “leather” (it’s fake, and machine washable) jacket that was just about the exact same color. I’ve always wanted to get a really long leather trenchcoat, probably since I was about seven or eight years old, but I’ve never been able to afford one of the ones that I wanted because they always ran at about $600, which is far too much for me. I don’t know, I just can’t see spending that much on a coat.

Anyway, I was depressed and couldn’t help myself, and decided that $50 wasn’t too terrible for a coat that had nothing wrong with it (its tag on the liner said it was from Norstrom, so I knew whoever bought it first payed a lot for it). I knew I wouldn’t be able to find one like it again, so I just gave in for once, even though I’m pretty much void of cash.

Maybe it was karma, or maybe I just focus too much on money, whichever it was, when I got to the checkout and the woman rang it up, it only cost me $25. That at least made me smile a little.

I went home and spent two hours cleaning it. Used leathercleaners and such because I know I can’t afford (or my parents can’t afford) for me to take it and get it dry cleaned. Anyway, it’s all clean and pretty now. I even cleaned the satin liner, and much to my surprise found that someone had written their initials inside one of the spaces between the leather and the liner (it was only tacked, not sewn). Wonder who ‘RY’ is? Kind of odd initials.

I could probably take the letters off pretty easily, but I don’t think I will. I may just add my own initials inside, next to the other ones. I think I like the fact that it has a history.

Filling up an empty soul with material possessions.

They say that money doesn’t make you happy, that things will not bring lasting happiness. I wonder if “they” have ever been in my position. When you’ve never felt true, unadulterated happiness, sometimes the weakest of pleasure is beyond imaginable. It seems unreal, untrue, and most of all, it stinks of lies. I ask myself over and over again, How could it be?  I am amazed sometimes that in this world of pain there is such a thing as pleasure, something that doesn’t hurt. For a long time I mistook my own pain for pleasure; I did not know any better. I think that forever, any remnant of “happiness” in me will always be spotted with pain. Happiness, even in the most diluted of forms, is a sick reminder of something I can never have. What I call happiness, is not in fact happiness at all, but a moment lacking pain. Not numbness—that is another beast—but a feeling of…normality. A moment where I am not completely hateful of each breath. There isn’t really joy attached to it, only a gratefulness that for once in a great while I don’t have to continually endure suffering.

The idea that money brings happiness scares people. It has long been secretly acknowledged that being alone means being unhappy, being lonely. Humans are social creatures, as my psychology professor seems to be so keen on saying. They need company, compassion, love, etc. I have come to understand that my lack of loneliness and my love of being alone is something people assume is either a show I put on, or an indication that I have something inherently wrong with me. Fine, so be it. Think what you will, it does not make my feelings any less real. With such strange likes, strange ways, comes odd solutions to my own problems.

The hole inside each person’s soul is generally a place filled by a god or another human being. (Yes, sick people, I like puns. And no, that one in particular did not escape my attention.) Which is why the thought of “completing a soul” with a bunch of shit one acquires, is so bizarre an idea to the general public. If you do not understand a person, you could not possibly know what it is that will complete them, can you? Now I’m not saying that material possessions will “complete me”, but I do believe that they can fix some of my problems.

Whenever I make a choice, I take ages to decide; it’s my way. I took months and months and months to finally select a corset for myself. Corsets are sort of like a controling person: rigid, spiteful, and all-encompassing. A controlling person doesn’t just “exist” in your life, they own it. Every damn piece of it. With a corset, you tighten it to get yourself to appear more to your liking. With control, we bend our universe to view us in a certain light, truthful or untruthful. Corsets and control are one in the same. They both point to the answer that people despise: human beings are stupid, exercise a little control over yourself and you get them to do whatever you want of them. Change their perceptions, basically. Things allow me to change perceptions, because of this, I like money. Not only that, but things bought bring me a sense of satisfaction. I like being surrounded by what pleases me, just as much as the next person.

I’ve attempted to have a circle of friends, to obtain a feeling of connection amongst other people. Obviously, it didn’t work. No matter how much I have in common with anyone, it doesn’t matter, because in the end I cheat on them with myself. Me and me run off into the sunset and live hatefully ever after. I get sick of people expecting me to completely revamp myself to fit into their pathetic little agenda. And they always hide it so simply, like they think they aren’t going to get caught…hmph.

Books, reading, that seems to be what I enjoy the most. I like the idea of being in a different place, a different time, being someone else. It suits my boredom well.

So sure, maybe money and lots of useless shit doesn’t equal the traditional idea of happiness. For MOST people. But at least it is enough to make me feel better, less bored. If it quells the boredom then it is most definitely worth it. And to me, not being bored, not being in pain, that’s a really great thing. If I have to use an odd method to obtain it, so be it. At least I have an answer and I don’t have to go around pining after a god that doesn’t care or a person who doesn’t want me, but an idea of me.

At this point, I change for no one.

Yes, I think this picture relates what I’m talking about very nicely.

Punishment that never ends.

Sometimes I tell myself that it is alright that I want to die, that there is nothing wrong with that. This place is far from wonderful, far from perfect, and in truth it can be close to Hell. If there are levels in Hell, I must be in one of the easier ones. Even so, it’s still Hell, and I am still the person I always was, with no drive, no dreams, no goals. I live out of pure boredom and a sense of false, all-consuming loyalty, nothing more. Every reason I give is just another lie, another strike on my private record.

So many strikes the paper looks black.

I am disgrace. I plague even myself with my own existence. An existence that is taxing even on me. If I am such a burden to myself, it must be twice as worse for the ones who hold me up. On my own I would collapse; a malformed structure that was never meant to stand. I was designed all wrong, and all of my “improvements” have only suceeded in worsening matters.

School draws nearer. I know that my pathetic reasoning is starting to burn from my anger…the rage at being trapped in a cage that is inescapable except for one path. I don’t want this. I never wanted this. I’d take anything over this. I want it to end.

Anxiety eats at sanity
Unwelcome cannibalism of self
Hatred that never stops.

I will never feel normal. There’s never going to be a day where I wake up and it all feels okay. I will never have that day, not even a single one.

I have to say another lie: it makes me stronger.
The torture makes me stronger.
My chosen torture makes me stronger.

Today is not the day to die.

How about never?

Just when I think I’ve buried all of my screwed up emotional problems under layers of masks…someone always has to go and ruin it. Then comes the stark reality that no, I’m not any better, I’m just more adjusted, just better at concealing that which poisons me. I guess I sometimes lie to myself…I say that I’m perfectly okay in social situations, that my feigned arrogance will always be there to save the day, but when it comes down to it, like I said, I am no better than I ever was.

As is traditional, my godparents (mainly godmother), has pushed me into a corner that I can’t get out of. Not to say I don’t enjoy myself when I go to the city to stay for awhile…it’s just extraordinarily stressful. It’s like taking a tiger that has been loose in the forest its entire life, living in utter solitude, then dropping it into a bustling metropolis and expecting it to adjust overnight. Hell, that’s exactly what it is. It doesn’t work, obviously. I end up high-strung, almost manic, to the point where my nights are restless or full of strange dreams. The sounds of sirens, the whir of engines late into the night, the far off barks of dogs…it puts me on edge. I can’t sleep, I can’t think. My brain is in overdrive, assessing, processing…too many people, too many sounds, a strange house that creaks with every step, a dog that barks incessantly at squirrels, weird food, people who think they know me but are so far away, fake smiles, fake happiness, complete terror. And it doesn’t stop. Everything floods in and floods in, overwhelming a body and mind that are used to experiencing a very limited spectrum of events.

When I lay down to rest in their house my chest aches, burns for anything familiar…just something, anything…. Music doesn’t help, sending emails doesn’t help, because I’m not at home, I’m not where I am supposed to be, the place where I am permitted just a few precious moments to be myself…. Writing is done in secret there, words scratched into my journal in near blackness, frustration building. Nothing penetrates that mood…the uncertainty, the fear, the anger at being forced into a situation I do not wish to be in…. My stupidity for allowing it to happen,willingly putting myself in a situation I view as torturous. Yet nothing can be done, as my sense of loyalty would not permit it. That voice whispers to me: Some things must be done. Life is pain, birth is pain, death is pain. This is but one event of many that you will just have to endure.

I made the mistake of saying “okay” to one of her questions while I was off somewhere in my head…. I don’t know what she said, something about her house, and when I finally realized what she had asked me, I cursed myself for being a moron and not paying attention. However, I did redeem myself partially in my own eyes, as I built up enough anger inside to tell her that I wouldn’t be coming over for awhile because I needed some time alone after school let out and all. Hmmm. It’s a shame I just can’t say, “How about never?”. I don’t want to be rude, considering they’ve done a lot for me, so I am severely limited in what I can say to them. And knowing them, they would take offense if I told them I didn’t want to go over…ever. They don’t get such things. I don’t even think my parents understand it all that well either. I guess it does seem very odd to others. I’m just used to it because I’ve dealt with it my entire life.

I feel as though I let it control me, and I don’t like that feeling. At the same time, I know that my personality fits well with the social anxiety: I’m a loner. People say they are ‘loners’, but rarely mean it. I am one, in all senses of the word. I am naturally inclined to shy away from others. The anxiety just makes that inclination all the more stronger because even in situations that should be enjoyable, I feel extremely uncomfortable (because of the anxiety), not only with myself but the people I interact with. There is almost no case where the social situation is pleasant, and that’s the scary part. It’s always looming over me.