Breaking free

There are some people in the world who can’t keep their mouths shut. No matter how much they claim to care about you, they are forever willing to take a cheap shot simply because they can. It’s not all jealousy, but I realize now that some of it is.

Are you truly so jealous of the fact that I don’t have a job and you do? Do you really think being unemployed is the greatest thing that can happen to a person? You know, I’m sorry that things aren’t the way you want them to be, but it’s not my fault that you are utterly incapable of making your own decisions and that you’re in a living situation where your other party doesn’t want you to go without working. That, in other words, is your fucking problem, darling. I’m sorry that you feel the need to throw my unemployment in my face, but quite frankly, I don’t care what you think of me, if this is rooted in some kind of disgust. You know what bothered me? Not that you think less of me, but that you thought it was okay to voice your opinion in that ridiculous, underhanded way of yours, where it’s little more than a half-veiled insult. 

You don’t have any friends. Have you taken notice? You know, we laugh at you behind your back now, and I don’t feel an ounce of pity for you. You deserve every bad word against you, and I won’t bother to defend you any longer. What would be the point? You don’t have friends because you’re an insensitive cow. And honestly, if things weren’t the way they are now, I would scream it in your face. I’d cut you down without hesitation. You’re a sad woman on a sad little hill of pseudo superiority. You’ve chosen to isolate yourself, and the funniest part is that you don’t know you’ve done it. You’ve even managed to get under my skin enough for me to put you in the same category as my grandmother, who I absolutely fucking loathe. So congratulations. You now have no real friends, and you’re not even going to know it. 

I was going to write you a letter, but I’ve decided that that would be pointless, because I have a better idea. There are certain perks to being a Satanist, the first of which being that I believe in my own personal happiness before everyone else’s. I’m also extremely materialistic, which puts me in a difficult position given my joblessness—fortunately there is a solution. You. You want to buy me all that expensive shit and take me out to dinner every night that I see you? Okay. I’m hardly going to protest. Do what you want. It’s your money. It’s not my fault you’re entirely blind to just how much I am disgusted by you. Go ahead, spend piles of money on me. Do it. I’m not going to stop you. I consider it bullshit tax. You want to treat me like shit? Well I can do one up on you. Not only am I going to be sickly sweet for my own enjoyment, but I’m also going to take you for everything you’ve got.

You’ve been fucking with the wrong person. I gave you a chance because I know you’re a slow learner and have absolutely no grasp of human relationships. Psychologically, you’re a goddamn child. I was willing to put up with your stupidity in those matters, however, you’ve bored me. Your trivial opinions and irritating lack of pain tolerance have finally pitted me against you. You’re physically weak and pathetic, and you think that being thin translates to being beautiful. I’m sorry, but you’re too ugly on the inside to be anything else to me. And not only that, I know all your bullshit is a fucking sham. Actually, everybody does. And you know how I know?

I put things in your food.

That’s right. You’re lactose intolerant, right? I always put milk in mashed potatoes. Quite a lot, actually. In fact, I put it in most of the things I cook. I put it in all the things you eat. And half the shit you’ve been eating HAS FUCKING SOY IN IT. I thought you couldn’t eat soy? What about the bread? I thought you said you couldn’t have it? You realize all the shit I feed you has gluten, right? You know, for being a fake, you’re not very smart. I get it though. You told me without even realizing it. They paid attention to you as a child because you were always thin and ‘sickly’. Now you want that attention again, so you’ve starved yourself to a grey-skinned mess, and come up with all this bullshit about your diet. I get it. But if you wanted attention, don’t you think there would have been an easier way to go about it? This whole scheme is obviously a little too elaborate for you considering how you keep inadvertently tripping up. You haven’t complained of being sick, which you obviously would have had that ever been the result of our cooking. You can’t seem to not complain. About anything. Again, you’ve gone and dug your own hole. 

As it is, I realize that confronting you would just result in unnecessary awkwardness considering it is likely I would still have to be in contact with you from that point forward. You wouldn’t take it well. Liars never do. You’ll deny and point a finger. And why should I go to all that trouble when you have limitless potential? I’d be squandering a meal ticket. My pride generally gets in the way of me accepting things from others, but with you, I can’t see that being an issue anymore. I have no reason to feel as though I should pay you back. You’re offering your services, right? Okay. Then by all means, provide.

And your words of wisdom about my boyfriend, I have news for you: he can stand you even less than I can. So your pointless little comments about how it might ‘last a little while’ just make me laugh, because he certainly has lasted longer than you. You getting on your high horse is funny to me, because quite frankly, at 22 he has a better grasp on life than you will ever have, even at TWICE his age, as you are. Pathetic. You dare to claim my immaturity? Ha! I’ve made my own way, and what have you done? I live an adult life, and you still flounder about like a child with absolutely no understanding of anything besides your own painted world that keeps thinning out around you.

No, no, I’m not going to tell you. I’m going to keep things exactly as they are. You’ve made your choices. All the hell that comes raining down on your head is your own doing, and I am just along for the ride. I’m an opportunistic predator, and I see opportunity on my doorstep.

It’s funny, because I’m not going to have to do much of anything except bite my tongue and smile, while taking all that it is you have to offer. I look forward to our future together.    

Not this time.

When you spend enough time alone, you learn that there’s freedom nowhere. Even if you only commit your most horrible of acts all by yourself in a darkened room, you will still be judged. They will be there, trailing after you like a shadow, passing on their useless ideas to you, barring you from what you need should you permit them. And how easy it is to let them. How easy it is to feel as though the world is like this god, peering down at you, condemning you for what you are. But now it comes from yourself. Now the enemy has infiltrated your inner sanctum, and once it is let in, there are very few ways to get it out. It will cling until you tear it into pieces, until you find something, somewhere that validates you and makes you good enough to stand up for, to fight for. But sometimes you never find that….

I used to be afraid that if I thought anything bad, God would punish me. I’d wake up the next day and something terrible would happen to me or my parents or my friends. I used to spend a good five minutes in the night with the blankets up to my chin,  praying endlessly in this cycle. For anything and everything, for things to go alright the next day, for no one to die…. I’d say the same parts over and over again, until the words became jumbled. Repeat it over and over, like the fucker couldn’t hear me, like if I didn’t say it a hundred times he wouldn’t do it for me. You have to be like a slave to get him to listen, I used to think.

I’d walk up to the holy water in church sometimes and drop something in it. A necklace, a bracelet. Like somehow some water in a dish was going to do something to me. Things like that only have power because we believe they do. And what did I believe, really? I was clearing my conscience. I was trying to feel like I was doing everything that could possibly be done to keep everyone safe. Ah, what it is to be a child!

The prayers eventually turned to curses. I’d spend ten minutes facing the wall, white-knuckled, saying this darker mantra in my head.

Dear God, I hate you.
Dear God, I hate you.
Dear God, I hate you.
I hope you fucking die.
Dear God, I hate you.
Dear God, I hate you.
Dear God, I hate you.
I hope you fucking die.

It’s funny to me now, to admit to it. It seems almost crazy even. But no matter what happens, I always believe somehow. I can’t seem to fully fade into atheism, regardless of how pessimistic I get. I will die believing, and I will die still hating. I don’t even remember why anymore, how it all started, what moment it shifted. I hate him for being here, maybe. I think that’s what angers me so much; that I’m here and feel I had no choice. In the end it translates to an anger at myself for not doing anything about it. It’s me that I really hate; God is like this backdrop I can use to make it less inconspicuous.

Eventually that rage came back to haunt me. And I know now that that’s the voice in my head, the one that laughs and thinks this is all such a great game. I feel like I drown myself over and over, barely letting myself up for air.

You like that? Does it feel good?

I’m the one that I believe has failed. I’m the one that doesn’t want to do it. I’m the one who won’t die but yet refuses to really live. I don’t understand it. I have nothing in me that really wants to go forward, just this blind apathy to lead me around in the dark. And why? Why can’t that too leave me?

I wish now for some of that emotional clarity, where I wake up for the briefest of instants and suddenly I can’t stop crying for all that I’ve done, where I can’t think back and see a single reason at all to go on. Months ago that happened. Before the mountain. Before….  Was it before I started working? I still don’t know why I lived. I don’t know how I could hate myself so much and still continue to breathe. It feels impossible. But it was pure in all the ways this is not. I felt something, believed something. It wasn’t a blank, numb acknowledgement of self-loathing, it was something that felt real.

Never again? I was wrong to swear it off. I should have used those feelings when I had the chance, because I may float on forever in this apathetic void and not have that again. I may do it in a moment of weakness instead of a moment of strength where I am truly living with that feeling instead of feeling nothing, going on memory alone.

“There is no more lively sensation than that of pain; its impressions are certain and dependable, they never deceive as may those of the pleasure women perpetually feign and almost never experience.”


I won’t edit this. I don’t have the time.

There reaches a point…where it just isn’t worth it.

This is going to be very misanthropic, and honestly, I’m going to convince myself not to care. I always try to avoid going too far, revealing what I really think, but there’s just been too much going on lately for me to keep silent about it.

Life could be shitty, but nearly perfect, if there simply wasn’t anyone in my life. I realize that sounds like something an angsty teen would say, but the truth is, every problem that has been arising has been due to someone else’s negligence or lack of self control. I hate to lay the blame on other people; my own actions put me where I am today, I know that, that was all a result of my decisions. But what I don’t feel any regret about, is blaming someone for something they did do, that they did have control of.

I don’t want involvement with other people, on almost a holistic level. There are days where I don’t even want to watch television because I don’t want to see “normal” life, “normal” people. I don’t live “normal”. Chances are, when I wake up, I don’t know what time it is or what day of the week it is. I don’t care if tomorrow is election day, or if someone died yesterday. If it isn’t within my small scope of existence, in truth, it does not matter to me. Call it cruel, stupid, ignorant, whatever, but I do it for a reason: when I lived “normal” I couldn’t stand it. It drives me insane, and I mean that. It does something to my head, makes me stop ticking. It’s like being shut off, with an automated person taking over. I do things, but they don’t matter, I talk to others, and it doesn’t matter.

This life is based of off cooperation. It was designed that way. It’s not about the individual, no matter what people may try to sell you. I can’t escape having to interact. I can’t run away from my life without serious consequences.

I think there is a part of me that must need some sort of interaction at this point. That is why there’s this blog and a million other avenues through the internet that I constantly abuse. Secretly I keep believing that I’ll wake from my little nightmare. Perhaps that is why I haven’t burned all that many bridges. I keep thinking I might need them someday.

Someday? What day? I don’t even want to make it to 20. That was one of the main reasons I no longer attend college; I didn’t have a “foreseeable” future. I didn’t want to waste 3 years trying to earn a paper that I honestly…was never planning on using. And that’s the truth. I wasn’t sure I would be around another year. How do you say to your parents: “I don’t want you paying for my college because I don’t plan on living long enough to complete the degree, let alone use it”?

The point of this ridculousness, is that life was made so that it is about people interacting. We, as human beings, have made it this way not only out of ease, but preference. And I just fucking don’t want any part of it. I never really did. People are worthless, they fix nothing. They make me feel worse instead of better and further my hatred, so why bother? Any day I want, I can delete all that I’ve written. It can all be gone. I can turn it all off and never face it again, as though it never was. The great thing is, you can do that with your life too. Flip a switch and off it goes.

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.

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.