Like a portal through time

There’s this room here. Old photos are on the walls, even furniture, all from my childhood. It even has a similar smell, like that house scent of some place lived in where you walk in and you can almost sense the life lived between the walls. Everything is a lie though, painted over in sunflowers and filled with some kind of old regret and sadness. Maybe that’s something I brought with me. I’m not really sure.

I feel depressed here. It’s out in the flatlands, in this geographical blip of a place that’s entirely forgettable other than the cold and snow. You breathe outside and it feels frigid. Hurts almost. And I know it’s not just the cold, or the harsh winds that like to tear through the dying grass and the old, dilapidated houses. It looks like some place the apocalypse had its way with. Now all that’s left behind are husks and broken windows.

They’re both here, my parents. It’s like they never separated and I’m 12 again and we’re playing house. They even act it all out. So eager to please one another. I watch with a vacant expression. I stare out the window and feel my mind wander somewhere without me. I’m just looking. I’m just here, except I’m not. I don’t want to live that life over, but this house is like a fucking time warp that I just walked into, unknowingly. It makes sense now why she hasn’t let go, even after all this time. She’s living in the past every day in this house. It’s even in the kitchen with the bowls from the old house and the occasional knickknack collecting dust on the shelves.

There are even old blankets and photos of me everywhere. But none of him. Like she left him out to make a statement, except everything is his anyway. He’s there, in the movies on the shelves, in the bits of furniture he made. It’s like she didn’t want anyone to see, but I see it plainly, without difficulty. It’s lies, all those things she said, pretending to care. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t believe me. She still loves him. And all I can think of is knowing that I know what his dick looks like just as well as she does, and that every time he brushes past me, my skin crawls and I feel like the bile in my stomach is going to melt all the way down, down to my feet, where it will make a puddle and disintegrate the wooden floor below me. Like the acid blood from Alien. Drip drip drip.

But it’s not that bad, she says. I wouldn’t know what it’s really like. Oh, but wouldn’t I? I just don’t speak it aloud, don’t type it out. Because I can’t. It’s stuck in my throat or in my hands, where my fingers won’t extend to press into the keys. The words died a long time ago. They’re just pictures now, playing in a loop, a slideshow that’s playing on the screen in my mind all this time. I’m tense, but it’s easy to hide. I have made away with secrets for a lifetime.

This place feels like some kind of museum; a monument to something I’m not quite understanding. Maybe it will make more sense tomorrow. Fuck, I don’t know.

Quiet

I think i probably spend too much time alone. It’s easier though than having to bother with others. And the truth is, my tolerance has become intolerant. I find myself grinding my teeth every time someone else speaks. They ruin a silence, the gap in conversation where my brain can sort things into some kind of cohesive mess that’s slightly more appealing and understandable.

My friend interrupts me now. Every time I pick up my phone to text, she immediately flings a bunch of questions my direction so I can’t type without long pauses. She’s jealous, I suppose. It’s strange to see. I tire of her attention seeking. She mentioned recently that she hoped we would crash into the bottom of the ravine while we were driving. She said that at least that way we would have more trauma to talk to with our therapist. I’m not sure what to say to that, not even now. And at the time, I said nothing.

She’s slipping further and further into her lies and I watch with lackluster interest. I told our therapist that I was sick of her constant stories with their changes. Every week it’s the same story with altered details, precariously placed in some kind of effort to intrigue me. She has told me she fears getting boring to me. She’s been listening to different music and constantly makes jokes about how “when we’re married” or “when we’re rich”, we’re gonna do _______. I’m not even sure where to go with it. I’ve discouraged her, but it makes little difference.

Then she told me the other day that she wanted me to tell her what I remembered from her doctor’s visit the other day because she “sometimes gets ideas and then thinks of them as part of the memory/story”. In other words, she knowingly lies.

This sudden insight into her own behavior is peculiar; she tends toward ignorance, willful and not. She’s never been particularly self-aware, if anything she has a strong proclivity for bragging and exaggeration. It just so happens that the previous week, I had a conversation with our therapist about her lying, then of course she suddenly says this.

I know for a fact that he (therapist) uses my words for her therapy. She has told me things he’s told her, and I have to stifle a laugh when I realize he’s feeding her my concerns. This should maybe be a warning sign of his untrustworthiness, but somehow I appreciate it. It’s been making my life easier.

I’ve grown tired of company. My current situation is frustrating at times. I find myself away more often than not. I go off by myself for hours and I don’t look back.

Blissful ignorance

I’m not sure why, but it’s been really difficult for me to work on art. I have a few projects going at the moment, but nothing I’ve managed to finish. I haven’t been selling very much, which is probably my own fault, given the lack of material I’ve had to offer recently. We did make an offer on a house, to which the sellers responded ridiculously. So, needless to say, the one I thought was a true possibility, no longer is. I’m not upset about it as I should be. I guess I just don’t care anymore. It will happen when it happens, despite the obstacles that seem to pop up at every corner.

We’ve had trouble with the loan, trouble with his credit score, trouble with the loan officer (we went to 4 different banks, once we experienced the so called ‘help’ of one of the most useless human beings on the planet). Our real estate agent, after a good track record, has suddenly become flaky and unreachable at times. So I figure we have several more months of this to go, and I can only hope that the market here holds at its current dismal position so that we will have an opportunity to afford something.  

Most of the places we’ve been looking at are even further out than we are now. The one we made an offer on was literally down one of the most desolate roads in the area. I know that if we end up somewhere like that, I’m going to get sicker. I think I’m going to get sicker wherever we go. I can see already that I am swiftly approaching deadly territory. I know I will also get better, but not in a way that anyone will understand, and not in a way that will be helpful to me outside the house. I know I will withdraw, until there is nothing to withdraw from. I’m not afraid of it, but I am frustrated with my own condition. I know what I am like and how I will be, and despite knowing that, part of me doesn’t want to try to stop it. I want to be so cut off that I can’t feel anymore. I’m so close, then it comes creeping back, my bad habit, my last little struggling connection to the world I could never fully connect to. 

I want to disappear in a little house in the woods. I want to never leave the sanctity of what I will create. I know there will be trouble. I know that things will go wrong, as they always do. But damn me for being able to hope after all that has happened. Damn me for having a dream. It’s all impossible, and somewhere I know that. The day will come when something will happen and I will have to abandon my art and my little business and get a real job just like everybody else. And I curse that day, that day that I have to swallow my pride and accept that my little dream is unattainable, and no matter what I do, someone will steal it from me, someone will take it away. 

But for now, I will fight to keep what I have. I’m going to make more things and work harder. I know that I am capable. I know that I get just a little more time. And even that precious little bit, I suppose is better than nothing. This isn’t happiness, this isn’t content, but this, this is something I can live with. For how long I can’t say, but that’s more promise than anything has had my entire life. I’ve lived everyday counting to an end, and to not count… It does not seem possible. It’s a background sound now, the ticking of a clock rather than the center of my universe.

I still can’t pinpoint when it happened, when I went from broken to hopeful. But it happened, and I am grateful to forget for a moment that she follows me, stepping into my shadow, waiting, watching. She’ll come when I least expect it, and she’ll take me down again, down that pitiful spiral.

Apathy

I’m not sure why I feel so bad. I guess it’s just the time of night, the thoughts that come around when it gets dark and I find I’m more or less alone. My chest aches; it’s this clenching feeling like it’s being squeezed. I don’t think I ever really get over anything, I just learn to think about it less.

I can’t decide what is worse: feeling wanted or unwanted. Sometimes I think the alternative to being alone is so much worse; there is so much bad that can come of it. I can’t make myself concerned enough to stop, but it hurts. Why do something that hurts? There isn’t even temporary relief anymore; it’s there and it never leaves. You’re caught with it, no matter what. Pursue what you will but it will come for you.

I am the greatest liar. It’s one of the very few things about myself I can admire. But here I am making myself more and more trouble. I going deeper and deeper and I’m finding I’m even more shallow than I ever suspected. I’m finding I’m one of those people I always voiced hatred and contempt for. I am taking all for me and damning anyone and everything that would condemn my ways. Am I not what I always wanted? Isn’t this what I wished for? To be detached and apathetic to anyone and everything, regardless of circumstance? Can I live with what I’ve done, what I am doing?

What does it matter, even, if I can’t have what I want above all else? Why should it matter if I tear a couple of people apart in the process? Is that not what this creature was intended for? Is that not what I have been trying for? I have grown. I am becoming better. Or worse. I still can’t decide which. Whatever this is, it is a little bit of change. I feel more angry and irrational by the day, and it makes this so much simpler. I am what I thought. My low self-esteem is entirely justified as far as I am concerned. It has all come true, hasn’t it? I am wanted only by things I am secretly disgusted by. I don’t want to admit it to myself, acknowledge just how bad I’ve been. I’m not guilty, only ashamed, ashamed that I have been taken down so easily without a fight.

I wish I could forget everything, but then I wouldn’t be going where I’m going. I wouldn’t feel like I’m actually becoming friends with my depression, to the point where no pills or doctors will be able to intervene on the path I am setting. I want to live in rage; I want to be blinded by negativity and hatred. They deserve it. I have been treated as nothing more than a plaything. I don’t need goals to live. I don’t need happiness to get by. They can take their shitty assumptions and ideals for themselves; I want no part. I’d prefer to live to destroy than to live for the sake of living. I won’t let anyone tell me different.

Freedom

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 mark against.

I don’t think it’s supposed to hurt to be what you are. If it does, you must be forcing something.

Work is shit; my promotion is more of an irritant than anything else, making me sick to my stomach and rattling my nerves until I leave my shift so exhausted that I don’t have enough energy to even have a life. Not that I have the time or anything, or that there’s much to be had.

Everything has gone wrong, it seems. The good that’s happened has been bludgeoned by bad, until it has all become a sickening, worthless pulp. It doesn’t matter that it happened now. I hurt. It’s as though there is this hole in my chest, wide and gaping. It’s actually like a stabbing pain when I think about it, like having something torn out and taken. And everything’s suicide and endings and not having to think about anything anymore. I was stupid to think anyone would do something for me. Their help is nothing but fumblings; there is no certainty to it, no strength of will in their grip. Faltering and sweaty and too fucking uncertain and destined to fail every damn time because they don’t understand it. This isn’t a phase; I won’t grow out of it. I’ve wanted to die since I can remember. I’ve wanted to cut myself out of this mess since the beginning. And now I’m 20 and stupider and I can’t believe I’ve suffered myself this long. I hate being myself, I hate who I am. I am a failure and I’m not fit to be here and staying around is nothing but a mistake and more proof of my own idiocy. 

Every day I live is another mark etched into a wall; a scratch that amplifies my own incompetence.

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.