More Problems

I’m fairly irritated and down at the moment. Things aren’t going as I would like (what else is new?), which is more or less slowly murdering any of the hope I had at the beginning of the week. I hate that no matter what I do, other people get to be in control of my life. I can do all I want to alter my path, but no matter how hard I try to forge ahead, my luck either runs out, or someone purposefully blocks my way. It’s times like these that I start thinking that everything is against me, and whatever I do will accomplish nothing. I know that the only true way forward is to make as many ways as I can. At some point, something has to lead somewhere. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. 

Just like this fucking post, which keeps being deleted, over and over. I’m going to keep hitting the goddamn button until I get what I want. I promise you that someday people will finally see that my endurance of this will outlast everything around me. 

A New Day

You know what I hate? I hate those times when this realization comes to you, obliterating some shielded, pathetic candle of hope. It comes creeping up so slowly that it almost doesn’t register, then it peers over your shoulder, whispering with its wet breath tickling your ear until it becomes so unpleasant that you can do nothing but flinch and acknowledge it.

I’ve been trying to look at things differently, though admittedly that’s not really within the spectrum of shit I happen to be capable of. By nature, I am a pessimist. If life is terrible, it can only get worse, and the only way you can live through those storms is to huddle up in a corner and bear it. Fighting does nothing. I can change things all I want, but the moment you let in outside influences, they are guaranteed to fuck you up. They will take you for all you have. They will take your ideas. They will mind fuck you so bad that you feel as though you can’t bear it. You’ll forget why you’re doing this, why you’re going on. Why you keep to this path, determined to find something, and absolutely terrified of truly having to live. 

God, the truth is, it’s more scary to have to plan a future than to have things simply end. It would be so easy to stop, but for some reason I can’t bring myself to go to the very end. I don’t know why anymore. I just know that I want to obtain as many things as I can and be surrounded by what I love. There is no solace to be had, no answer to the riddle. I can have these few things that please me, and go on living with no reason or purpose except to find more things that awaken something inside. It’s so hard being so cold. What I would give for a flicker of anything… Oh, and when it comes… It will rain down on me, fire and brimstone, either white-hot anger or the crippling vines of depression whose grasp I will likely never escape.

The grass isn’t always greener as they say. I am more careful now for what I will; sometimes we don’t know what’s best for ourselves. It’s so much easier to live the lie than to turn around and force yourself to stand up to the truth.

The unending apathy

It only became clear to me the other day, that no one really understands what it means to be numb. I call it apathy or emptiness, as it is both. People don’t understand that you can have reasons for doing things with absolutely no emotion behind them. You can be ‘excited’, but it is not accompanied by any feelings whatsoever. It’s simply an acknowledgement that, okay, something good has happened, and somehow it’s supposed to mean something. There’s no giddiness, no mental high; it is what it is and in theory ‘good’ things are supposed to make things better.

God, how do I even begin to explain? How can I pull this apart so anyone can understand what it is to be me? To feel no emotion but anxiety and fear, and only those in the fleeting, dangerous times. And they’re not even whole, more like this strange wave that washes over you, cold and unwelcome and nothing like what it is supposed to be. My fear isn’t even right; it’s alien and wrong, nothing but a distortion. I feel the fear for milliseconds, then it fades into a dull ache of confusion. My body doesn’t understand, and neither does my mind. I’ve been like this for so long, that I’m beginning to forget that I am supposed to be feeling something. I’m so good at faking it, that it has become natural to act as I am expected. And no one gets it. I’ve explained it, but it never seems to fully register with anyone.

I could drop all the things I somehow hold close, and I would be no less whole. It’s always shallow and empty and meaningless. I know what I must do, but it’s only from having learned reactions through watching others. Everything I am is a lie.

There is caring somewhere, but I know that it is nothing but a shadow. Whatever form it used to take is long gone, and I’m left chasing after smoke, determined to establish my sameness, somehow realizing that my differences, if known, would ostracize me even more than I already am.

I love, but it is not what it should be. I can hate, but it is an illusion with its tough outer shell and hollow center. Everything has a facade, and I keep forgetting that I am living in a pretend world, and the only realness is on the inside, hiding away. Not afraid, but aware. I’ve been trained so well I never questioned the whys. This is what I am and it must be protected and locked away. Not because I care about discovery, not because I care about how it would impact my life, but because this is what I know, this is what is familiar. I’m so programmed, I’ve lived like this for so long, that I am utterly incapable of rewriting that program. I’m trapped, forever acting out a part I never wanted and I don’t understand.

May cause thoughts of suicide

Everything has slowly been coming together. I don’t know whether this is a shitstorm and I’m just in the eye of it, or what, but there haven’t been as many hurdles as I might have expected. I’ve been more or less selling whatever I can get my hands on in an attempt to save up some money for a down on a new house. Yes, that’s right. You heard it from me first: I’m moving out. I’m so fed up with everything here, that I finally decide to pack up my shit and leave. My mother has been more or less harassing me non-stop since I quit my job, and I’m through taking it. I’ve been earning enough selling my artwork to buy my own things and get gas for my car—not once having to ask her for money. Not that I ever would; I have too much pride for that. But just the same, I find her mentality insulting. It’s this unspoken assumption that I haven’t left her because I need her, when in fact, it’s been more out of loyalty than anything. Loyalty I certainly don’t owe her.

She came into my room screaming the other day. I was asleep, and she started yelling and crying hysterically, asking me why I would lock her out of the house. When I told her I had been sleeping, she rounded on my boyfriend, getting right in his face and accusing him of having purposefully locked her outside as a joke. Uh, so, do you even know my boyfriend, I wonder? He’s about as nice and supportive as they get, and he’s hardly going to be running around playing stupid jokes on people. And what’s the weirdest part, is the whole time she was screaming (yes, literally), she was all hate and bitterness and cruelty. I have never really seen her that vengeful, and it was over the stupidest thing. She was acting like my boyfriend had tortured her dog to death or something. It was bizarre, and entirely unexpected.

He tells her he went outside for a minute and locked the door when he came back in, not knowing she was at the store. Locking the door is a big thing around here. You have to lock it. Always. Which is fine; it’s their house and we have some shifty neighbors, so I don’t protest. Well, we also have a inside lock that folds over. Not quite a deadbolt, but close. So when she gets home (my boyfriend told me this part of the story later), instead of being a normal human being and knocking on the window to be let in, she starts slamming the door against the lock over and over, more or less throwing a tantrum like a child. Really? Is that really fucking necessary? I get locked out of the house at least 2 or 3 times a week; I’m used to it because of how anal they are about locking the door. I usually call them on the phone and have them come open it. So, needless to say, this was fucking ridiculous. And I know that he’s not exaggerating, because I’ve seen her slam the door like that before.

Once she’s done screaming and he tells her he didn’t do it on purpose, she offers him this hysterical, angry apology (the whole time crying so hard she’s almost unintelligible) that’s more like a reprimand than anything, and storms out of the room. I’m up in the loft and immediately force myself to crawl down the stairs half-asleep to go confront her in the kitchen, where I tell her to she needs to back off and learn to control her temper. I’m tempted to yell at her, but somehow, I stay calm even though I am seething, and I go back to my room and don’t talk to her for the rest of the day. Better yet, I call my father at work and tell him what happened. Later, when I walk out into the hall, I see that the deadbolt is removed entirely from the door, and my mother has gone to bed early. I hate playing the snitch, but I’ve been in this place before, and the last time, my mother ended up telling her twisted version of the story, and causing my father to more or less round on me in that odd, detached,  quiet-voice way of his. When I finally was able to tell him my side of the story, he completely switched sides, which caused an all-out screaming fight between him and my mother.

I don’t know what’s going on with her. She has never acted like this before, and she made my boyfriend really upset, which in turn, pissed me off and made me upset. He has been paying rent since he got here, and when I was working I was paying it as well. I don’t know if she’s resentful that I’m not paying it, or what, but we constantly are in these stupid conflicts about what we can or can’t do in the house. I rarely even invite anyone over because she is so standoffish, yet I don’t protest when she invites whatever distant relative to come peruse my room. Which, by the way, regardless of whether or not the house belongs to my parents, is still my room. I’ve payed for it, my boyfriend is paying for it. I think we deserve at least one place to call ours. I don’t even go into the rest of the house for the most part, and I don’t talk to her during the day except here and there. I spend most of my time working on art in the shed, or over at a friend’s house. I do my best to keep everything orderly as I am capable, and I cook my own food. I’m literally like a ghost here, which is why I don’t understand her behavior.

Not only that, but she insists on doing my laundry and cleaning my bathroom. I’ve started cleaning the bathroom regularly to keep her out, but she still does it. And the laundry I’ve given up on, even though I prefer to do it myself. It’s almost as though she can’t let go or something. Yet when we started looking for houses (before the fight), she claimed she was never going to visit. Uh, okay. Am I supposed to be sad or something? Quite frankly, I just don’t get it. I think she grossly underestimates just how much of an asshole I can be when provoked. I also don’t think she realizes that her actions are making me hate her. She has done so much for me over the years; I am the first to admit that, however that does not make me her 5 year old child whose life she can control in every aspect. I’m just tired of it. I’m tired of arguing about things constantly, and I’m tired of being on the verge of hating her because of it. I just want to make art and be left alone. I’m tired of her looking down on me because I don’t have the same drive as her. I’m working, aren’t I? It’s not like I quit my job and am sitting on my ass making her pay for everything. Fuck. I’ve been earning my way, even without a traditional job.

My boyfriend and I found a little house we’re thinking about getting. It’s kind of a shithole. It’s small, thrashed on the outside, and stinks like I don’t even want to think about, but it has a nice, fenced yard, and the little house has possibilities. The inside isn’t in bad shape, and it just needs a really thorough cleaning. I’ve already talked to my father about knocking some walls down and putting some up. I’d take it just to get out of here, so I don’t have to constantly feel like I’m going to be thrown out at any second.

 

I don’t think my mother realizes just how close I was to checking myself in somewhere when I quit my job. I have so many things I need to work through, and I know I need help, but because of my twisted sense of pride and because I thought my parents would think less of me, I’ve been trying to handle it on my own. Being creative is helping, but there are still times when I have to mentally list the reasons why I shouldn’t kill myself. It’s disgustingly short. The whole ‘you need to go to work everyday’ mentality makes me feel like a useless, pointless idiot, even though I technically know it doesn’t mean anything. I’m earning as much as a part-time job, and it’s slowly increasing, and I keep telling myself I have nothing to be ashamed of, but I’m hard on myself, and I think part of me is angry that I’ve been backed into this corner.

I also know I might never get this opportunity to explore my love of art ever again. It’s now or never, and if I’m patient enough, I can make this work. I just need someone to stick with me and have faith in me. I’ve somehow, despite the odds, found someone who is willing to do that. And for that, I couldn’t be more grateful.