A strange sympathy

I woke up this morning very confused and disoriented. It was 3:30 in the afternoon, and the curtains and the stairs were blocking out most of the light. When I moved, I realized something was different. The bed wasn’t empty like it usually is at such a late hour; I’d forgotten he’d stayed home. We had one of those typical moments where we both just lay there and pretend like we’re going to go back to sleep, and I prod him a couple times to make sure he doesn’t really drift off again. 

I must have been out of bed five minutes when I get this weird text. I blink a couple of times and reread it. 

“Can you come to my house? i need you….”

Given that it was entirely out of character, I grabbed my shit and left without much thought about it. I always wondered to myself what I would do if the situation was reversed and someone else asked me for help. I must have come up with a thousand reasons why I would ignore it in the real world, but somewhere in the back of my mind I kept thinking I could never do what had been done to me. Never. Not ever. There is nothing in the world worse than laying on the bathroom floor of a shitty motel, fucked up beyond comprehension, sobbing so hard you can’t see straight. Bloody and hateful and desperate. No one should ever see anyone else that way. I remember beating my head into a wall until my ears rang. I remember the coldness of the white tiles on my bare legs. I was screaming so loud he threatened to call the police. 

Even then, after that incident, I didn’t stop drinking. I can’t explain to anyone what the appeal is of such a horrible state of mind, suffice to say you come back from it as someone else. You wake up in the morning and everything is clear. Your demons have fled you, finally. They run away in terror, because even they cannot handle such a frightening, self-destructive monster. There is nothing more pure and primal than that person, and there is no way it can be let out except with drink, because no one in their right mind can be as uninhibited and certain in their desires as that individual. The devil comes alive, and he’s as flesh and blood as anything. 

I’ve never done drugs because I’ve never searched for pleasure. Pleasure was never what I was seeking. All I ever wanted was something to permeate that fog of control, control that is almost always nothing more than a sad puppet’s illusion. You take that away, and you can find what lies beneath. There is no doubt and the fear is heavy on your chest. It’s only then that you truly know what death is. It is only then that you can know whether or not you answer to that unending question is ‘yes’, or ‘no’. It’s only when you throw up so many times you grow weak from it, when you’re laying there fucked up and lost and alone that you see what this is all about.

Interestingly, you usually only know who your true friends are after the fact. They might stop you because they are afraid, but so few help because they genuinely care. After the fact, things fall apart. No one can live with the reality of such a thing, such a dark, horrible secret. Watching someone lose control is as condemning as any crime. You’ve committed a crime against what’s right and just to them. You’re mad. There’s only one in a thousand that will stay with you after such a thing. And somewhere in my heart I always hoped I would be like that person, no matter what my instincts might dictate. 

She was just fine, if not a little upset, sitting on her porch smoking a cigarette. She was surprised that I showed so quickly though, and grateful. It’s good to know I haven’t lost everything of me. There’s still a little something left, you just have to look.

And it doesn’t matter how many times it happens: I’ll still come running. Because there is no way in hell that anyone should have to die alone. There’s no excuse for that. To do so is nothing but fear and cowardice. I loathe the ones who run, afraid of anything that isn’t perfect. We’re so imperfect, and sometimes that’s the only good part of anything.

How can you not see? How could you?

I hope it haunts you everyday for the rest of your life. In the end I must thank you, however. I thank you for breaking me down in such a way. I won’t be tied down by you or anyone. I am free in all the ways you are not. Your benevolence was a lie; you’re worse than the ones you hate. I see now what I’ve done. I see how I was wrong, and I see my fault in the matter. But I am glad for it. There is not a thing I would change, because I realize now that all I got to see was who you are. 

And things certainly aren’t as pretty on the inside. 


A day in the life

I feel really blank and crappy. It’s four in the morning and sleep is no closer. I have no appetite and I’ve been more prone to avoid people than usual. I tried to spend time with my godfather, but he has a tendency to be fairly quiet and difficult to converse with. He tends to barb me with his blunt remarks, all of which are his idea of banter. I’m to the point where when any of them come over I’ll lurk in the pantry, leaning against the doorway, watching everyone interact but not involving myself. I’m not sure why, but everything people do is becoming even more mundane than before; it’s literally like that feeling when you’ve seen a movie you don’t particularly like 10 or 15 times. You know what happens, you don’t like what happens, yet every time you walk into the room, the movie is playing whether you like it or not. You have to face it or shut the door on it. Sometimes shutting the door is easier.

When I went upstairs for a nap, I got no reprieve. Phone calls and texts, to the point that I finally put that piece of shit on vibrate because I couldn’t take hearing “Du Riechst so Gut” anymore. It rang/beeped so many times that I must have gotten 20 or 30 minutes of real, true sleep out of the entire 2 hours. What’s ridiculous is that I was so groggy I was having trouble figuring out what was waking me repeatedly. I was in that weird half sleep thing, where if I wasn’t fully asleep, I wasn’t very awake either. I’m not sure if I’m sick or what, but I just feel incredibly off, and my mood is so flat that I’m having trouble handling it.

In more positive news, I finished the desk I was working on. It’s lovely. Everything is all cleared out so that it has a spot now. There are tons of drawers for me to throw my bullshit in without it cluttering up the tabletop. I have a thing about bits of paper; they’re everywhere. But I can’t seem to throw them away, so I end up shoving them in drawers so I don’t have to make any conscious, adult decision about them.


I really hate it when my head does this to me. I have no fucking drive and it makes me want to hammer something blunt into my skull until it is nothing more than a useless pulp. It certainly feels like that right now—useless that is. 

I did write a sort of journal while I was away, but reading it now, I don’t know if I’ll bother to post it. I need more time, and I’m panicking about the fact that I’m not going to get it. I haven’t started anything I set out to do. 

I really never thought I’d get anywhere. I was lying to everyone. I’m not stupid. I know that I don’t have any of it in me. I’m too hell-bent on hating myself to get anything done. Everything looks so grey and monotone and boring and it doesn’t mean anything, not really. Sometimes I wish someone would take away my choice and force some life into me, but then where would I be? Living on someone else’s wings? I can’t understand myself, why I keep agonizing over it. I don’t know what I want. Nothing satisfies and I can’t bear it. Everything shouldn’t be pain, but that is truly what it is. It’s like everything else is shut off and I’m left with nothing but the doubt and the pain and the regret. 

I am what I am, and that there is no changing it. 


I’ve been making an effort to not be a recluse. It’s difficult, but I think in the long run it will be beneficial to me to try and maintain this new-found ability to interact with people. The more I withdraw, the harder it is going to be when I finally decide to venture out again. My paranoia, if anything, is worse. I’m constantly assuming that people have ulterior motives for everything. I run through this list every time someone does anything nice for me or buys something for me. It seems like every generosity is expected to be returned. Granted, I am not one to mindlessly take, despite my personality. Material things are something I draw the line at. I don’t do charity. Chances are, you give me something I will try to refuse it. It’s always too good to be true, if life has shown me anything. What’s the saying about going one inch and someone taking a mile in return? I guess that’s what I mean.

The only way I can take anything is if I know I’ve given to someone else previously. Rarely though, there are certain people I think of as being unselfishly generous, at least in that they don’t expect anything material from me in return. Usually they want love or attention or something similar, or they’re the sort that get all fluffy inside at the thought of being giving. If it’s the former, it’s never stated, and if I don’t give it, there is little that can be done. In the end though, as self-centered as I might be, my sense of responsibility to others is outright ridiculous. Sometimes, it makes me think I deserve some sort of beating. There is absolutely no reason I should be so loyal, yet I am. I would go to lengths that other people couldn’t possibly imagine. Those people who claim they would die for you? They have no idea how much further it can go. I’ve been there, I’ve done that. I never thought I had any capacity for forgiveness, and I was right. I do, however, have a capacity to conveniently forget. I’ve been so angry and so hateful for so long, that I’ve forgotten where the feelings even originated from. The former arguments I used, they no longer have meaning. They sound hollow and insignificant now, even though that assessment couldn’t be any farther from the truth. 

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m still mean and fucking perpetually pissed off. That’s my nature. But all those past slights and injuries have faded into nothing more than a constant wariness. I remember why I must be wary, but I do not remember why it matters. Instinct, I suppose. I bury all my secrets in my mind, much like I used to do in the ground at that old house on the hill. They’re in that backyard somewhere, down deep with the worms. I must have dug a thousand holes looking for that box before I left. It was one of those metal cookie tins, all rusted and dented and probably from the 80s. It think it might have had Santa on it, but who can remember that far back? I buried all those hopes, and I buried all the pieces of me that I knew were going to make it harder to live. Everything is down in that fucking hole, just like it is now in my head. It’s so far down, so packed from years of forceful pressure, that I can’t get to it anymore. I can dig a thousand holes, but I’m not going to remember why. 

I guess some things are better left unfound. 

Snowball’s chance in hell

So I finally got a call back. I was literally just woken up, said the wrong things. Now I’m sitting here stewing about it like an idiot. I called them back and left a message, not that it will do me any good—I’m sure they were typing out a decision as I was speaking. Usually I can manage not babbling or repeating myself, but fuck if I could do either of those. It’s just irritating that I’ve been doing paperwork for over a month and filling out all this shit to no avail. The universe always slaps me in the face, but fuck if I won’t take it like a man. I’m starting to think it’s bullshit anyway, and just another thing I’d use to avoid the inevitable. I didn’t even bother to do a ritual for it; I thought it was doomed from the start.

Okay, let’s be honest here (everyone put on their honesty ring!) I couldn’t be optimistic for anything. Optimism always ends up leaving people butthurt and defenseless, of which I will be neither. I think setting myself up to fail is much worse than a mild apathy toward every situation. Even though in a normal circumstance—without barriers of “I don’t care” dutifully blocking the way—I would be in a corner sobbing like a bitch. But what the fuck does it matter anyway? I said the wrong thing—someone is judging me accordingly. How is that anything new?

I hate this bullshit. I hate all of it. People can decide your fate for you, and that right there is a load of shit. I want to bulldoze my way through life. I’d like to make all their decisions for them. Playing God is not something any human being can do with grace, but I think I could manage to hate everyone and deal out bullshit decisions without much of a conscience. People deserve the worst that could possibly be dealt to them, even me. Fucking tear us down and start over, because this whole pathetic reliance on a justice that doesn’t exist and right and wrongs that are definable a thousand different ways, they aren’t doing any good. Where the fuck have we gotten? Nowhere. We’re still a bunch of idiot cave men wildly swinging a club to see what we can hit, which would be fine, so long as we didn’t go into it pretending to be righteous and and pure, and like we fucking give a shit. 

I don’t have to worry though. People dig their own graves, and sooner or later, somebody on high is gonna get a treatment like mine and they’re going to see the devil they’ve been harboring. Oh, they won’t see till way after the fact, but it’s fucking coming, you can rest assured. 

I had a therapist tell me that she’d never met a Satanist who was well-adjusted, like it meant I had some sort of debilitating disease that couldn’t be cured by her bullshit psychobabble nonsense. She said we were too self-destructive to lead a normal existence. This all being because we fuck without guilt and do what we please. Bitch, I took the same classes as you, I heard what they were preaching and saw it for what it was. You couldn’t accept reality. You WERE ON THE SAME PILLS I WAS ON. Clearly, there was a problem.

But I get now what I didn’t get before: I accept the fact that I have issues. I acknowledge that I have those issues because everything I look upon is carved from a fucking ‘reality’ that suits the weakest links in our society, people like the woman who sat there typing, in full-on denial of the fact that she was using medication to push down perfectly natural feelings of disgust and self-loathing. Be disgusted. Hate EVERYTHING. Hate everyone. Because you know what? That’s the only honest feeling you’ve ever had. Your pseudo empathy?  Your fucking piece of shit Mercedes Benz? That was bred into you. You’re a fucking breeder that does what you’re told. You fuck like they want you to fuck, you act like they want you to act, and what do you get out of it? A handful of the pills you tried to pawn off on me? I have news for you, something I neglected to mention to you. Those pills? They made me worse. You think I’m an asshole now? Well you should have met the basketcase I was when I was popping them like fucking Tums chewables. You can’t fix something that isn’t broken. The only reason there is something wrong with me, is because you people deemed it so. Who died and made you my god?

I am whatever it is I am. Maybe I have a brain tumor. Maybe I really am fucked up as all hell. But you aren’t going to be able to sideline me forever. I’m learning new things every day, while you sit there regressing, entirely unaware of how stagnant and tired your pathetic excuse for a world truly is. This place is going to fuck you up, and you know what? I look forward to watching.

I know where you’ve been . . .

I’ve been trying to keep busy. I get distracted easily, so it’s been really difficult for me to pin myself to one project or other. I keep starting things. My desire to do anything to better myself is extremely low. My eating habits have been terrible. I think I am just adjusting to a life without strict structure. I’m used to going in and having a plan, telling everyone what’s expected of them, and having a plan even for myself. Now everything is so open and uncertain. Sometimes I wake up too late to do much of anything. My boyfriend suggested that I make a list of what I’d like to do, and that has been working somewhat. 

I keep picking things up to read, but now I’m reading five things because I can’t stick to one. I haven’t been doing any art because I am too restless. I’ve been writing mostly, which fortunately has been helping me a lot. I forgot how much I loved it. 

I’ve arranged for a week away. The location is far away from everything and everyone. The woods back it endlessly. I’m a little nervous about staying by myself; my paranoia is very severe when I’m alone. I also tend to do things I normally wouldn’t. I’m planning on drinking at the very least. I need to let loose. Some severe vomiting and self-loathing should do me some good. I’ve had no way to vent my frustration over the last six months and I know I’ve hit overload. I think some punishment might help me get rid of it. I feel so pent up with rage that there are times that it feels like that is all I am. I want to have release without judgement. I want to do it without people scolding me for my lack of self-control. If I want to mutilate myself and bleed, it’s my business. I don’t want anyone’s help this time. I just want it to play out how it does so I can get over it. I can’t seem to do it without someone standing in my way. I’m tired of people protecting me; I don’t need to be protected.

I don’t think anyone understands just how much I need this. I am not sane without it. I will lose control of my life if I don’t. I can’t begin a new chapter until I acknowledge  what I’ve done and the consequences of how it has played out. I want to be something. I want this plan to work. I want to be a legitimate writer so that I never have to be put in that situation again. But I am so full of self-doubt and anger that it is impossible at this point. I can’t move.   

I want to spend those days out in the sun. Heat or rain, I’m going to be out there, exploring. I’ll probably have to go on foot because none of the quads are working very well and I’d rather not bother with gas. It will be better for me to walk anyway. I don’t want to be around anything human for a short time. I’m going to take my phone but try to restrict my usage of it. I’m going to bring all those books I’ve been trying to read and my computer so I can write to my heart’s content. The main reason I am going is to get a good start on either editing my current novel or starting a new one. I still can’t decide if I think the old one is worthwhile. It feels really childish and angry now. I can’t read through it without cringing. I’m too lazy to begin another one though, and I have very few ideas. I did start something else, but I’m not sure where I was going with it. 

I’m going to go as soon as a few things play out. Depending on the outcome and how long it takes, will determine when I leave. I’m hoping it will happen in the next few days so I can leave in the middle of next week sometime, but I suppose we’ll see.