Things unsaid

Getting up was the hardest thing today. Once I convinced myself, I was only out of bed for about an hour, then immediately retreated again. I must have slept 16-17 hours. I got up again at 7pm, but felt so terrible, back I went to bed again. I didn’t eat or drink until late in the night, wherein I treated myself to a binge, which, surprisingly enough (but not really), made me feel even worse. I haven’t showered, or brushed my hair, or accomplished much of anything besides laying around. I know I’m protesting something, but I’m still not entirely sure what. I’m so disgusted by common life that there have been times I have flirted with the idea of a semi-permanent sleep. One created from repeatedly drugging myself with anything just to keep me subdued and unconscious so that I might ‘sleep off’ my bad spells until I am ready to face whatever this is once again.

I won’t go back to whatever I was doing before. It’s fucking bullshit. I’m so sick of being a fucking slave. I’m going to hate everyone just like I’ve always wanted and I’m going to lie and take without fucking permission. There’s nothing to hold me back anymore; I am too numb to care. I want all these things and I grow weary of being told what I can and cannot do by people who supposedly give a shit about me.

I may live in your home, but I paid my goddamn way. Who the fuck are you to tell me how to live? I paid for your fucking bullshit! Doing what you have doesn’t seem to have worked out so well for you. I’m waiting for the day you confront me again and tell me what I need to do. I don’t need to do anything. Don’t you get that your bullshit is what’s hanging over my head? Don’t you get that everyday I sit here, I imagine you’re going to walk in and tell me what a useless piece of shit I am? I want you to kick me out. Because believe me, I desire nothing more than freedom. Just give me another damn reason.

I’m going to say something tomorrow, but I just don’t know what it’s going to be.    



Actually having to see someone was one of the most difficult things I’ve done in some time. I feel like it’s useless, but I really don’t know what else to do. I finally scheduled a second visit, even though every cent of it is coming out of my pocket. My first session alone was 200 dollars, and every other visit will be 150.

I think driving around trying to find her house was worse than the actual visit. I haven’t panicked quite so bad even with everything that keeps getting thrown at me at work. I’ve accepted my promotion finally; for the second time. For some reason, that makes me laugh. Yes, that’s right, the second time. I’ve more or less become the tech girl, because no one else bothers to see about having the equipment fixed. I am even more awkward with phones than I am socially; it’s like pulling teeth, but I know that if I don’t call tech support, no one will. I get out the manuals and sit there for a good half hour a day trying to program things, tweak them so we can at least use them in the short term. Then I have to make long phone calls where I get jumped from center to center until someone can help me with a problem. Nearly all of our equipment isn’t functioning properly. We have problems daily, both with the computer systems (which control the cashless) and either the shake machine, the fry machine, or the toaster. The other day it was the espresso machine, which refused to work at all, letting out a few trickles of milk and then more or less telling me to go fuck myself. Customers scream and threaten, and I just smile.  It’s just fast food. I refuse to lose any sleep over it.

Our main manager has taken to calling me over every chance she gets. I’m caught between hating her guts and being forced into civility for the sake of keeping my job and being comfortable while there. Her manipulations are childish and predictable and I usually manage to keep a few steps ahead of her. It all feels like a game, and appeasing her isn’t really in my nature. I generally shrug at her anger, which only incites her more. I say yes to her criticisms and don’t debate them (I’ve learned this through watching others lose hours and get screamed at), though I hardly pay them much mind. I will take no lessons from someone I have no respect for. Fighting it is useless at this point, at least in any outward manner. All my defensive action is silent and thought-out. It takes me weeks to get rights wronged, but I do. I just wait. I’m slowly learning patience, and my numbness keeps my horrible temper in check for the most part. I can be a harsh manager at times, mostly because I despise ignorance, but the word around is that I’m fair and very difficult to rile.  A few people hate me, but it’s alright. I treat them all the same, so I have nothing to feel regret over.

My lack of emotion is all-encompassing now. I’m forgetting my loneliness, forgetting my pain. It’s easier to go to work now.  It’s easier to see a psychologist when I can’t bring myself to give a flying fuck about what she thinks of me. The sobbing and anger were embarrassing, but I believe that was the worst of it. I’m hoping for better the second time around.

I don’t sleep alone as much, which is helping. A friend of a friend comes over a lot. He’s tolerable in most senses, though for whatever reasons I can’t bring myself to sympathize with him when it comes to his infatuation. He’s disgustingly easy to control—practically hands the leash over to me. It’s the one thing I can’t stand about him, but it’s also the one thing that has kept me from breaking off the friendship. He genuinely doesn’t seem to mind how he gets treated, so long as I let him stay. There’s a part of me that knows I should feel terrible for my behavior, for I have mistreated him, in ways that aren’t forgivable. But sometimes you have to blind out the memory of one thing with the memory of another.  Everything is slowly mending, and my old armor is coming back into place. I almost feel like myself again. Almost. I’ll forget him or write over him eventually. I think rejection was worse to me than trying to pull myself together. But I’m getting over it. I will get over it.

I forgot what it was like to have a friend that you could actually reach out and touch. It’s strange that I hadn’t longed for it as much as I should have. Yet now, when it’s here and it’s real, I find myself shrinking away, trying to get loose of it as though it’s made of nothing but chains.

Freedom is hard to come by.

A finale chaotic.

I don’t know if anything really matters when you don’t care. It’s so difficult to express how I feel. I just can’t get out of this. I’m not sure if it’s something that happened to me or if it was always there waiting for me. Maybe it was all dormant for a time, blocked out by so many people, so many faces. Fuck, I know I felt it, at sometime, to some degree.

I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me anymore. I’m not going to call it depression or tag it with any other ridiculous term that has been tainted and abused by weak-minded, worthless human beings. Whatever they have isn’t what I have. This is forever, as long as I live. This hasn’t just lasted a month or two months, or even six months. It’s been motherfucking years. Years. So many I’m losing count. I’m not going to pretend anymore that it’s going to clear up and disappear so I can be ‘normal’ again. There isn’t a normal like they have, not for me. It’s over, it’s been over, and I am so tired of waiting for something terrible to happen to me.

Nothing saves you. You are all alone, even if someone holds you while you cry. And maybe that is the saddest fucking thing. Maybe that’s the thing that makes me lose all hope.

Shadow Blind

I wrote this over the span of a few days. It might have even been started yesterday, but to be honest, I’m not sure. I guess it began life as an entry, but somehow changed into a short story. All mistakes within are my own.

It was a black like blindness, black on black so severe no shadows were discernible. To close one’s eyes was almost a gift, for the thought of seeing the black truly was far worse than only acknowledging it behind eyelids. It was such a child’s way of thinking, but somehow it was less threatening to keep eyes sealed shut than to openly stare into the void.

I would stumble around in that encompassing dark, on and on. Endless was that wasteland; everything and nothing. At times I would rush forward madly when fear fully took hold. Like a clammy, unrelenting grip, it would choke off any thoughts of bravery, any thoughts of escape. There was never to be one, nothing but this, and it made my mind scream. Flee, said the base of my brain.

An animal in a trap I would struggle, facing the dark for once if only to find a light. I would become so enamored with the idea of something bright, something that shined.

Insanity. Eyes wide, yet nothing to see. How cruel it was to stare into nothing. No matter how much I would force my eyes to take in my surrounds, no matter how much I secretly begged for sight, it would not come.

By then I would be clouded in an aura of fear, you know, that bestial stink that we can all detect. And I always think those things lurking are going to smell it. They’ll scent me from that pathetic, lonely fear and come running. Come like a pack of hounds, and here I am the fox let loose, free from the captor but not really. Death’s still coming, and on swift, tattered wings. So I run. Blindly.

I’d fall finally, over and over, a victim of my own terror. But then I could only ask had I fallen? Had I really? So disorienting, this. How could a person tell? I must have gotten up again, because I’m walking, I’m moving, right? I must have done this a thousand times, but so gone has it made me I can’t remember anymore. Trip, fall, get up, until they all blur together, grey fading into black. Nothing good, nothing bad. Nothing lost, nothing gained.

But god where am I? Have I made progress, or am I still back at the start with only seconds to my worthless name?

I know that I don’t go on forever. I know that sometimes I must stop, a heaving, sobbing mess, for once glad of the dark to shield me from those who would laugh. And they always laugh when the light is on, for what is my misery but a joke?

Then it comes. Sleep, the only-ever embrace. In a dream anything can be real, and any nightmare can befall you. But sometimes…. Sometimes it’s okay. Sometimes I dream that everything is okay; the bitter winter ends, and I drift into a perfect, dewy spring, if only for a moment.

I was told once that sometimes a moment is all you get. Maybe those dreams are that moment.

No one ever told me that that moment would be the greatest of agonizes. No one thought to tell me how evil it would be when it was all gone, what it would be like to wake up in the darkness again, realizing it was nothing but a dream within a nightmare. Sometimes you just can’t recover from something that cuts that deep.

But it doesn’t matter now, none if it does. Not that black, not that feeling of desperation or that lust for vision.

It’s just me now, me in this room with that chunky mahogany desk. I don’t even remember getting here. I can’t tell you the moment when I saw a light and raced toward it, or when I noticed there was an end to this labyrinth. I know not what happened, only that I am here and the light is not overpowered by darkness. Dim, it is, but it is strong. It does not flicker. There is no place here for hesitancy.

The wait is not long, though in reality perhaps it is. Years of black seem to corrode any sensations of time.

All of it is strangely familiar.

There are stacks and stacks—disorganized heaps of crumpled, yellowed papers—each page so thick they could be called parchment. Not only is the desk eaten up by these documents, but the bit of floor as well. Two pens lay haphazardly in the chaos, one black, one red.

But it’s the business card that ensnares all of my attention, so out of place, so tidy in its little corner. I pluck one from the holder, bending it idly between my pale fingers. I bring it close, frowning. It’s printed on thick black paper, the edges rimmed in gold like those expensive glasses you see at chintzy parties. The letters too are gold, rising up from the black so that I can feel the letters when I brush over them with my fingertips.

Confused by the words, I flip it, hoping it will suddenly make sense. But no, the back is blank. Typical. I tuck it into one of the pockets of my coat, vaguely noticing that it is my favorite one. I have no idea how I came to be wearing it.

I notice then as well, that my hair is long again, trailing well past my waist in wavy locks. I rub the strands between my fingers, perplexed. I had cut it off in a fit of rage, yet here it is again like a painful reminder of my lack of self-control in the face of my own anger. I always did have a short fuse. But I don’t have long to think on it.

I can feel the air being displaced, that primal, animal sensation—tickling at the base of my skull— telling me gently, that I am no longer alone.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” It’s a commanding voice, yet soft. One that would caress you as it simultaneously bludgeoned you senseless.

A blink and suddenly he’s there, though I hadn’t seen him cross the room. He must have come from the door behind my chair. Suspiciously, I turn my head slightly, eyes darting as far over my shoulder as possible without being overly conspicuous. I only do it as he busies himself with getting situated in his chair. When he looks up at me with a saccharine sort of smile, it’s too late; he’s missed the action. I suppress my own grin, which is easy, considering how quickly I find myself disliking him.

It always seems to be instantaneous like that. I also had someone tell me that I have good instincts, and to go with them, always. Whether that itself is due to instinct or the rare compliment, is anyone’s guess.

All I can say is that everything about this man is unsettling. There is something undeniably wrong about him: the way he sits; poised, disciplined, the way he has his hands interlaced, a signet ring twinkling from one of the fingers, the unwavering, overly-indulgent smile, the crisp corners of the suit, the gossamer strands of hair that are too-neatly pulled back from his face.

He’s trouble. Trouble wrapped perfectly in elegant paper.

Yes. You have much to hide, don’t you?

My lack of response doesn’t seem to deter him. He merely inclines his head slightly, voice too silky to possibly be real.

“I believe you know why you have been brought here.”

So I was brought then, was I? Did I not find this place on my own? Curious.

I shrug noncommittally, still not keen on speaking. I go through bouts of talking in daily life, but more often than not I cease communicating entirely, as though it is too much effort for my numbed mind to form the proper words. It sends most into a mood of intense irritation. But this man is not bothered. Not at all.

“You have spent an inordinate amount of time in the dark.” There’s a pause; his once-over is meticulous and nearly makes me twitch due to its intensity. I feel like a tick being eyed by a pair of tweezers. Any second I will be ripped from my livelihood.

If I have a livelihood.

“I presume this is…ah…a bit of an adjustment for you.” That smile again. It makes me want to die. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I can make it exactly how you like it.”

I shake my head, but only once. I hide the twinge at the corner of my mouth by grinding my teeth. I always did enjoy this game.

“It’s a delicate matter,” he states. “You have all the time in the world to make it.”

“Not really,” I argue lowly, my voice crackling from disuse. I can’t help the sarcastic grin this time.  

“No, not really. Sounds much less intimidating when said that way though, doesn’t it?” His head tilts slightly, like he is waiting for a response.

“For a dealer of souls, you’re not very organized,” I say finally, sighing, eyes roving over the paperwork he seems to have neglected for years on end.

“Procrastination. Tool of the wicked, I’m afraid. I do indulge the inclination more often than not.” For a second he seems through, but then he seamlessly continues: “For a self-proclaimed sinner, I find your discipline to be rather. . . disappointing.” He seems to taste that word, savoring it.

I bristle, but don’t answer.

“That you should end up here is questionable. I see little to warrant it.”

“Then you don’t believe apathy to be a sin?” I question, unconsciously raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, it is. But your life was lacking in years. There was scarcely time for it to become truly developed, at least enough to show what you were to become.” Sugary, bullshitter smile again.

Anger is welling up. I can feel it, like a poisonous wave rising in my stomach, toward my heart, then to my mind. I know I’m about to drown in it, and my words will be twice as biting. The words flow like a flash flood, just as brutal and indiscriminate. I must have been waiting to say them all my life.

Again, the stab of familiarity. I feel so rehearsed.

“I have never been old enough for anything,” I say bitterly, nearly spitting the words.

How I have wanted to confront him. I know that now. I’ve been waiting and waiting for this. I’ve pined for it above all else, to tear into him, to take a pinprick hole and create a monumental gaping cavern of vulnerability to shove every last word dripping with vitriol into. I would disembowel him if I were able.

 “I am not old enough to know. ‘Live and suffer awhile, and you’ll see,’ they say.” I can’t help but sneer. “You people define wise as by years. You automatically assume that each of us must be repeatedly beaten on the skull with our mistakes to fully comprehend and learn from them. I don’t need to be stupid to learn how not to be stupid. Watching idiots like you is lesson enough, I can promise you.”

I eye him defiantly. He seems to have no interest in halting my declaration, though his slight smile does nothing but spur me on. Patronizing, that’s what his look is to me, and I can’t stand it, won’t bear it. Anything but that. Anything but so-called ‘shrewdness’ borne of nothing but pure conceit. They won’t strangle me into submission with that one any more. I’m far past young and naïve.

“Have nothing to say to that? So you have been here longer than I have, were born before me. I hardly can see how that would be my fault, though come to think of it, in this world it would appear that everything is my own doing. That I was born at all seems to be yet another vicious slap to the face in retribution for some past wrongdoing! What have I ever done to you?” I ask angrily, heat rising on my cheeks, strength burning through my veins as adrenaline worms through my body.

My hands are beginning to shake. I can feel the stickiness to my palms, the result of both nervousness at being pressed to state my case by my own anger, and due to the raging sea of injustice I always feel at my own situation. Selfish? Of course. Guilty? Never.

“I have waited and waited and waited!” I’m nearly hysteric now, though the transition to it is hard for me to see in such a state. “I have done nothing but what was done to me, an eye for an eye! They were deserving of punishment. God doesn’t do it, so why not me?” I say to him breathlessly. “There is no justice. And there is no good or evil but that which is against me. Damn everything else, damn the events outside of that! They are not only out of my control, but not worth the effort.”

It’s quiet for a moment. I am steamrolling through every mental speech I have had with myself, snatching up the best material to throw in this man’s face. I am excited by my own fury, since it has become so rare in me. I feel alive, like something sensuous, instead of cold and long past dead. I will make this man understand, even when all the others did not. Even if I have to verbally assault him with it.

“It is not the apathy that brought you here. Your brand of apathy is not of interest to me,” he reveals, his voice softer than ever. “You said you knew why you were here.” He leans back further into his chair, eyes flicking to his own hands, which still lay curled upon the desk in that prim manner of his. “So tell me why.”

“You have nothing to say about what I’ve said? You’re going to choose to ignore it? Change the subject?” The flame in me is incited and will not die out now. Again I feel the sensation of supreme injustice washing over me, lapping at my sensitive skin with an acidic burn. “How dare you,” I murmur quietly. “All of you. How dare you turn me away when all I have done is listen to your inconsequential bullshit and pat you on the back as you sobbed like weak children. No one did it for me!” I add bitingly, coldly, like a vice of metal to a throat and just as pleasant. “No one ever did it for me,” I repeat almost pitifully, feeling something akin to sorrow mix in with everything else.

He leans across the desk, shortening our distance, which at this moment seems vast. “It must be this way. The injustice is not there for those who choose not to see it.”

“But it’s what they want,” I answer, irritated with myself for how I make it sound so much like complaining. “It’s not fair if you don’t want it too.”

His look changes. I can see that he’s taken a deeper breath, as though preparing for something. I’m frowning, trying to stave off any crying, crying which is a useless side-effect of going too long without emotion.

“You want it. I can see it. You want it more than anything, but know you are not to have it, either by fate’s hand knocking it away, or even your own. So you gracelessly choose to throw it in the face of humanity like a petulant child who did not get the toy they wanted for Christmas. Your lack of dignity is laughable. Nothing you have said to me makes me feel the slightest twinge of sympathy for how your life has turned out up to this point.”

In his first show of genuine emotion, he irritably grabs the forgotten red pen and scratches relentlessly onto a piece of paper I hadn’t noticed was in front of him.

“Congratulations,” he drawls tonelessly.

His eyes seem black as a beetle’s carapace as he straightens in his chair, allowing the low light to play tricks. I know that when the meeting started they were light in color, though I can’t seem to recall just what color.

 “You are everything you never wanted to be.”

 He slides the paper into a plain brown folder before tossing it so that it flops down in front of me with a shuffle of documents.

I’m not sure what to think, though I acknowledge that the meeting hasn’t gone as I had wanted it. He was just as patronizing and emotionally stunted as I had expected. There was to be no understanding from him. How could that possibly come as a surprise to me? My pulse begins to quicken, though I do what I can to hide my outrage at his complete disregard for the mess that is my worthless life.

His last words echo in my head as I stare across at him. I fight down an urge to reach across the table and grab him by his starched collar.

A smile finds it’s way to his mouth again, that secretive Mona Lisa sort. Like he knows the answer to a mystery that I don’t.

 All I do is glare at him, endlessly.

“I’m afraid your application for death has yet again been declined.” It’s a full-on smirk now. “22nd refusal, if memory serves.”

Confusion must cloud my face, because now he is grinning in a way severe enough to be called wolfish.

“Better luck next time, I should hope.”

And with a twisting, tearing sensation, the world fades around me like a dripping watercolor, the brights blending into ugly greys and blacks that smear the walls. His figure remains pure, so clear from everything else, in fact, that I can see the perfect saccharine grin again even as all else falls around, sloughing off into a blob of ruined colors.

Without mercy, I am plunged back into my fathomless world of black. 

The truth comes out.

So it really is true: the world is full of needy people who believe that love is going to skyrocket them to happiness. How charming. How weak.

I am sort of consumed by hate right now, so I’m sure my words will be particularly bitter. But I am so disgusted by this place, by their values. They always try to pawn them off onto me, to break me, to drag me into their sick little hole of co-dependence where they rot, clinging to one another like a bunch of fucking children.

Is this what people are? Is this what I should come to expect? They are all drowning, slowly, painfully, and I am but watching. There is solace in this, even if it pains me sometimes, even if being the most misunderstood makes me seem petty and stupid in their eyes. For when did I ever agree with them?

I think I have hit something new, finally. And it was an idiot that brought it to my attention. So thank you, idiot, for giving me some material to manipulate and chew on for awhile…. I was getting sick of being so numb.

Happiness, goodness, benevolence, be damned. And most of all, I hope love burns. Stick to your lies, I’ll stick to what lies beneath them….

Paranoia and moments of panic.

I keep having these thoughts of deleting everything and running away from it. Not just here, but everywhere. Like maybe if I cut of the last few veins I’ll finish bleeding to death and it will all be over. I feel like this stupid blog and my shitty attempts at writing are basically the last things I have left to really obsess over. They kind of keep me going in a way.

There is a secret part of me that wants to be remembered, but I know how ridiculous that is, how pointless. I don’t even like people, so what purpose is there in being remembered by them? They have no respect for me, and I have even less for them. I think that there are human pieces beneath this monster, and those are what make me so fucking uncertain all of the time.

I have these times too, where I freak out. I keep imagining that someone is going to figure out who this blog belongs to, one of those long lost people. I admit I haven’t been the best at covering my tracks. There are connections everywhere, and to me that is frightening. It sounds unfounded, but if you lived my life…it is full of so-called ‘impossible’ things happening. Everyone says, ‘oh, don’t worry about it, things will work out’, yet for some disgusting, unfathomable reason, they rarely do. Sounds like a perspective thing, but trust me, it isn’t. Even my optimistic mother admits that as a family we are on the verge of being cursed.

It’s as though the world has something against each of us. Around every turn seems to be a bottomless pit, so I’ve learned, as a tool of survival, to expect it to be there. Now I look like a pessimist, when in fact I’m just a psychotic realist who knows that the chances of things going right are only increased if I take to pounding the world into submission with my fist. Otherwise, nothing works out. I have to want it, just like the stupid driving license. If I don’t keep vigilant, like a sandcastle, it just falls apart. It has me high-strung, nearly throwing off my own sanity.

I keep thinking I’m going to die and/or kill myself, and this stupid eyesore of a blog is still going to be here. Along with everything else. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, the world finding out all my dirty little secrets? That underneath this exterior of ‘perfect’ is nothing but a sniveling, cowering misanthrope that wants to slink away and die of unnatural causes?

The panic was yesterday. Finally I calmed myself down enough to lay down, where I forced myself into a deep sleep. I had dark dreams in dreary rooms in filthy houses that I’d much rather forget. There are nightmares wherever I go, both awake and asleep. And I know, somewhere inside this stubborn person, that I have no one to blame but myself. I am the cause of all of this. I am alive, and so it must be. Both consciously and subconsciously, I hate myself. And every damn chance I get, I keep telling myself that, beating it into my head. I am the cause of every problem, of every flaw. It is me who makes this unliveable.

A life walking backwards, never forwards….

Why is it that nothing seems to get better? I wait, wait, wait some more, yet it just gets worse and worse. Each change I make is a step backwards, never forwards as it had looked upon first glance. So many damn mistakes that I just can’t fix, so broken that the pieces no longer fit….

I won’t lie; it hurts to be this way, at least during the times I feel it. I’ve lost myself in writing, but it doesn’t matter, because it changes nothing, improves nothing…. When I stop typing I’m back to my life. It doesn’t just disappear or fade away, it’s always there, like a perpetual nightmare haunting me. I want out. There are only a handleful of words that bring feeling from me:

And my absolute favorite, Martyr.

There is not one word that can describe this hell in its entirety; it takes many. But it is a black hole of nothingness that is bringing me down, killing me. And in the end…I don’t want to be saved. I want anything but to be saved. I want to die, and I want everyone to shut the fuck up and just let me do it. I want the voices to stop, I want the loyalty to die out. I want everyone, for one brief instant, to realize that I am the liar. I am the fake human being that was pretending all this time, feigning emotions I didn’t have, smiling when there wasn’t a fucking goddamned thing in this shit hole to smile about.

Most of all, what I want…out of everything, out of all of this bullshit…. Is just to stop. To end. To be over. There was never anything here to begin with, and I live on for false purposes because I can’t sever that monster that wants to rape it all and break it piece by piece…. I want to fall. I want a bullet in the head more than I want breakfast.

Yet I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’ll wake up alive tommorrow, still breathing, still hating it. Still going on as the perfect liar…so fucking perfect that no one even knows.