Well, what the fuck.

I hate it when I go out of my fucking way and get ignored. I’m pissed about everything right now. I don’t think there is really much of anything that I’m not absolutely infuriated with to the point that I’m reconsidering this whole being a normal person thing. Because, you know what, it’s not fucking working. To top it off, it’s not even worth it. Honestly, what am I getting out of this? Is this a sick preview of my life to come? Bullshit, more bullshit. This huggy-lovey shit makes me sick to my stomach. No one can atone. No one can fucking take all that pain away and make anything better. I don’t have what I want. What I wanted is done and gone and I’m left with some shallow imitation.

I am what I am and there is no changing that. I’m a hedonist, so what? Don’t like it? Then don’t fucking live with me. I don’t want to ask for anything and I don’t want to beg for anything. I take what I want, and frankly I see nothing wrong with that. I’m sick to fucking death of people playing judge and jury over my life and thinking it makes a shit bit of difference. I do what I want regardless, which is why everyone is so angry with me at the moment.

And you know what really is fucking annoying? If I wanted a relationship like a normal fucking person, I would get married. Clearly I don’t have the desire. Sorry. I thought you’d figured out that after each time we fucked I shut the door in your face straight after. Did that not make my intentions obvious enough to you? I love you but you drive me nuts. If I wanted something to cuddle and hold instead of fuck me I’d have gotten a dog.

If you think I’m an ugly fat bitch, then what are you doing here?

There, I fucking said it.



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.

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.

To keep.

There’s so much about this I don’t understand. Every time I open a new doorway, a million more appear for me to explore. It’s a labyrinth, and I’m beginning to think it will stretch on forever, if there is such a thing. It’s a dark, long road to either doom or hope; I still don’t know yet. I’ll face that door when I come to it. God, all I can do is speak riddles today.

I feel so wrong, standing there in my blue uniform with my pressed pants and hair pulled back. That person isn’t me. People always ask me how old I am. Even when I say 19, they still ask if I have children. It makes me laugh every time. And finally, the other day, I snapped a little, and said rudely, “I’m 19, of course I don’t have children.” All of the women are around 24-26 mostly married, and nearly all of them have 6 year olds at home. I can only look at them with amazement. Why? How could you? You are barely even done being a child yourself!

Imagine, this one girl I see frequently, had her first kid when she was twenty. One year from now, me, having a kid. The thought sends me into an absolute panic. The responsibility…. I almost can’t care for myself (let’s not even get into that…), let alone some infant that would be completely dependent on me. It’s just two very opposite lives, two extreme ways of thinking. Me, with my solitary, self-centered existence, and them working at a fast food restaurant to keep their kids clothed. It’s so fucked. I can’t understand them, that mentality. I simply cannot ever see that mindset applying to me. Everything that these people are is all that I am not. 

Another one of the girls at work is trying to befriend me, even suggesting we carpool (oh, the horror). I feel like this monster. I look over at her and find myself aggravated. We discovered we both moved to the area three years ago (and we lived near one another before too, apparently, which she thought was the greatest thing). Turns out we live a street away from one another currently, in the same subdivision. In fact, I think I figured out which house is hers. She was going on and on about things, and I could only swallow and grind my teeth as she went on to tell me how she hated where she used to live, how it was a terrible area and so on and so forth. My home. My beautiful home, was all I could think. Don’t you dare speak against it.

She inadvertently turned me against her with that insignificant conversation. That, and one of the first things she said to me in the morning was that she likes working in the front so that she can watch all of the hot men (she said this as she craned her neck around all the cooking equipment and giggled, pointing out some poor, unsuspecting individual who was prowling around the booths in the corner). That’s just not something you say to a person that you have met all of once. I don’t want to know. I don’t care. Girl talk is not something I can relate to or understand. Quite frankly, I find it fucking stupid, but you know, we all have our dislikes….   

I shouldn’t talk so badly of it. The people are extremely friendly. They always try to help you out. You have a tray in your arms, someone is usually ahead of you to open the oven, or take it from you. Today, my schedule got thrown out for some reason before I got to it. One of the guys dug through a pile of garbage and got it out for me. It was covered in grease and all manner of nasty things. I didn’t even ask him to. Shit like that makes me take a step back, as ridiculous as it sounds. Even the smallest kindness is not something I am used to getting from others.

I can’t begin to count how many times I’ve struggled while taking my mother somewhere, trying to get her wheelchair to some impossible place, with people walking around me not even giving me a second glance. I don’t even expect people to open a door for me. My whole perspective of humanity is usually down in the negatives, but at work, it’s either everybody helps everybody or we all fall behind. It’s different when there’s a paycheck involved, at least in this particular workplace. I’m grateful for that, because I know I could easily have been shoved into a situation with a bunch of assholes who weren’t willing to help me learn the ropes. Everyone has made an effort to teach the newcomers. In all honesty, I don’t think I could have had it much better. I may not have anything in common with anyone, and I may not have any inclination to befriend them or any of that, but I’m more than willing to be cordial with them, which is more than I can say for the majority of people I come across.

On a side note, I got payed. My first ever paycheck. I couldn’t be disappointed by my reaction; I saw it coming the first day of work. Not even the slightest sense of accomplishment, nothing but stony, cold silence in my head, no flip of my stomach or surge of excitement. I looked down at a check and just sighed. I don’t know where this is leading, but I guess the best thing I can do is not stop to think about it so much. It’s only money. It’s only life.

Mindless pursuit of nothing.

Life for me is vices. You choose a few and you stick with them. You hope against hope that they will be enough to convince you to see the sunrise of tomorrow. It has to be enough, it must be. There is nothing else between these walls to have. There is no bright future to imagine, because no matter where I am, alone or not, I will never be pleased. I can smile, I can laugh, but the second I think beyond that moment…it all dies.

I acknowledge that this place is my own. I gave up my chance to get away. I could have finished college and gotten a degree that I hated so that I could make enough money to move the fuck away. I can still do that now, if I arrange it all carefully, but what does it matter? What do I plan to do? I will have my own house on some deserted lot and live my misery on the fringe of everything, as I have always done. It will be no different. Alone, surrounded…it’s all the same. I can’t get away from myself. All I can do is pick at the threads and try to pull myself apart more quickly.  

I want so badly for it to mean something, all of this. Not purpose—I will not search for that—it doesn’t exist. All I want is to wake without regretting it. I want to know that even if I am doing the most mundane of things, it is alright. I want to believe that it is not nonsensical suffering, that there is something here for me that will make it less terrible. I wouldn’t expect good. Hell, I wouldn’t even expect decent. I know it would always be horrible, that the pain would always far outweigh anything pleasant. But I want some fucking ‘pleasant’. Where is it?

I’m beginning to suspect I’ve become numbed to it, any feelings of satisfaction or pleasure. I am the most jaded thing. I find something and I drain it until there is nothing left, until it can’t even bring a hint of relief. What is there after those things have been burned away? Do I find something new, pursue something else? Repeat this, over and over every time something grows tiresome?  

Everything has no taste. Bland and fucking dry. I feel like all I have been doing all these years is force-feeding myself justification—reasons to live—in this endless cycle of unstoppable gluttony. I’ve gotten lazy and complacent about it, not bothering to change things up, to explore beyond what is familiar and known to me. Now it’s too late. I can’t taste it anymore; it’s sand on my tongue and means nothing. It doesn’t make any difference now that I need it to survive. I’d still obstinately push the plate away even with that knowledge, because I simply do not wish to tolerate the tastelessness and grit any longer.

The feelings have not passed still. It’s been too long. They’re dogging my footsteps now, waiting, those demons fucking lurking around the corners to come extract their pound of flesh. Come and get it I say. Come take it if you dare. I don’t want it. I’ll take my apathy back over this any day. I’ll take nothing over sorrow. I’ll take numb. At least then I can distance myself from this, see it clearly without the taint of a bitter, unneeded heart.

Put me back in my coma.

Sometimes giving up sounds so much better.

I feel like I don’t want to fight for me anymore. I want to give up, just stop all of this madness. I keep telling myself that it is so pointless to continue, that I am not going to be mourned long, that there is nothing in this life I’m going to be missing out on. I can’t love, I can’t be, not without feeling so incredibly wrong. I want nothing from this place. It holds no magic for me anymore, no mystery that must be solved. I figured it out as well as I ever will and now all I want is out.

I don’t want to have a future. I want to jepordize it so that there is no chance, no more excuses for me to continue. I’m only doing this because it is what I was taught. It’s not what I want. Fuck, it’s never what I want. I know I am a failure for willing this all away. So many people certainly have it worse, but they want to be here, for whatever reason. In these moments of clarity, it is not the uselessness and pointlessness that hurts the most, but the knowledge that there is something in me, somewhere, that has inadvertently kept me going. I know that this survival instinct is so fucking futile, and it disgusts me that I hold onto something after learning just how ugly it is on the inside. I’m stupid for doing so, just as worthless as the people I hate for accepting this system, embracing and loving it for the pseudo power it grants them.

Wave salvation in my face and I’ll throw it all away. I don’t want to go to the interview in two days; I’d rather…not be around instead.

How fucked up is that? I need to stop thinking like this. I need to face what I hate. But all I want is an easy way out, a permanent darkness where consciousness doesn’t exist. Where I don’t exist. I want to never have a thought again. Because I think I won’t make it. I can’t bear going on when it’s nothing but pain and hatred and wallowing and lies. This isn’t going to change. I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and feel like I live in a beautiful world, with wonderful people that I want to care for and help. If I make it, I’m going to hate every second, and I’m so sure of it…that I can’t stand it.

If I live I’m an idiot. If I die I’m a failure who gives up too easily. There is nothing to win, always a draw.

Always grey.

Nothing changes, not when you look closely.

I was leafing through an old journal for lack of anything else to do. I’m biding my time still, and know that my chances are still incredibly low of getting out of this anytime soon except by an unnatural means. God, I keep saying that. I keep saying it and not doing it, and I still can’t figure out why. It’s getting to that point where whatever conclusions I have drawn are starting to disintegrate around the edges from being over-analyzed. I’ve gone and tattered what little hope there was.


“I want to destroy things. I want nothing less than chaos. My thoughts lately have not been good ones.”

Then another, undated one, just one line.

“Something horrible is growing.”

My oldest one is falling apart. The pages detach from the slightest touch, so it’s been wrapped with a rubber-band. The earliest entry is dated 12.25.04, since the journal was a Christmas present. There are several passages about God that I don’t recall writing. It starts off fairly benign, then progressively becomes more hateful. It sounds much like me, but different somehow. The bitterness isn’t quite so strong. There’s, dare I say it, hope.


“I keep thinking I want to die, but do I really? I’m not quite sure anymore. There must be something better than this, somewhere.”

I love my naivete. It’s sickeningly sweet, makes me want to jump into a time machine and go corrupt myself early. I was still in highschool in these entries, as there are references to my friends outside of school and my trouble with the very few “friends” I made in the home school program.


“Is it normal to have such hatred for people? Or am I just insane? I ask others—and they hate people—but they still seem to like to be around people. How is that hate?”

I know who this is. It came to me the minute I read it. Those few “friends” (who insulted me more than befriended me; my first taste of a purely selfish friendship where I had no attachment to the individuals), were the first open ‘misanthropes’ I ever met. It was the first time I heard it spoken about openly–the hatred of all things human with a pulse—even if it all was garbage from a bunch of ignorant, sex-starved morons who were more or less cowards when I finally confronted them. There was a short period where I idolized them for being so open. But then, as the year went on…I changed.

When I finally had gotten what I needed—gall—I tore their egos down without a backward glance. And they shattered. The feeling of power was so new and fresh to me, and the vitriol tasted better than anything. They had belittled me, laughed, yet  reluctantly acknowledged me because I didn’t ask questions and didn’t reveal their secrets. In truth, they hated me because I wasn’t openly cruel, because I didn’t seem like a bully. I was shy beyond belief, in a very innocent way. I used to let my anxiety overwhelm me back then—it still does sometimes—but I was so consumed by it that I never stood up for anything, I just hid away in a corner, willing it away.

But then it all made sense finally. They didn’t hate me. They liked me, because I was the sort they thought they could torture and get away with it: I was the perfectly willing masochist, painfully sycophantic. But…the snake always had fangs. And I bit. I snapped like a twig when everything came crashing down at home, and that sadistic, hateful bully inside finally snatched onto the hole in the curtain and ripped it clean open. Instead of hating only myself, I hated them, I let the evil in me lash out at someone new. 

And when the shy, demure girl in the corner struck, nobody saw it coming. They stopped talking to me. And all it took were well-placed words and a withered, pathetic ego that I distorted to the size of a cathedral. They were all talk. They were afraid. Action wasn’t something they did. No, they were the sort that laughed and harassed, believing that nothing would come of it, that there were no consequences. So when I was the one to stand up and ‘do’ something, it was enough to send them running, tails between their legs. And I always thought they were so brave. Fuck, I was such an idiot.

Undated, sometime in 2005.

“Everyone is their own god, their own devil, it just depends on which side we favor and allow the world to see.”

I honestly don’t remember any of this. When I open the pages, it’s my messy, twitchy script in black ink, but it feels like I wrote down someone else’s history. Was it really mine? I keep forgetting that I was once normal and had friends and people who were acquainted with me. Nowadays I walk into the local store and no one knows my face. Since moving, I’ve barely left my house. I stay home without leaving for a few months at a time sometimes.

There’s a strange awakening of hatred when I read what I’ve written. I guess it is the bitterness. I hate that there are weaknesses in those words that are so glaringly obvious to me now, but were only harmless words when they were pressed into the pages. I know that if I do manage to make it ten years (the thought alone is daunting) I’d end up staring at this and laughing hollowly. I’d tear it all apart like I seem to do with everything these days. I’d see the flaws, standing out starkly in the neat type reflecting back at me from the monitor. I’d look at everything I’ve accomplished and disregard it with a wave of my hand as a time when I was too dumb, too young to know better.

And by now, I should know better, but this time around I’m not stupid enough to think that this is all I can learn. There’s always room to become more bitter, to hate everything just the tiniest bit more. To lose even more of myself along every winding trail that I walk, without even noticing until it’s all fallen away.