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.

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A secret

Sometimes I let things slip. I don’t know why. Maybe I bottle too much up, then it suddenly boils over, and something has to come spilling over. A container can only hold so much, and perhaps it is much the same with my head. This overflow was unexpected. I’ve been with him three years or something like that, and I still hadn’t told him, not ever. It’s not even embarrassing anymore—it should be—but I lost my shame a long time ago, somewhere between being covered in my own shit and vomit, and confessing that as a youth I used to shoot small animals with a pellet rifle for fun. Fucked up? No, not at all, not anymore. I get to define what normal is. Technically we all do, which is something they don’t want you to know or remember.

A Secret

Don’t you ever just want to be brutally honest? Don’t you ever just want to fucking say it? Say it all?

I have to keep asking myself why that is so difficult, even in a sterile environment like the internet. Something most be wrong with me, because each time I give away a piece of myself to this blog, I agonize over it—for days at times. Can I say it, can I live with it? Even if no one were to read it, can I live with the idea of my innermost demons being ‘out there’?

I can’t explain my own self-loathing, suffice to say that it grows with each passing day, for various reasons. My lack of self control is so vile to me that I feel suffocated, constricted, by this need to punish myself. There is no fate horrible enough, no amount of pain that could even out this score. I will always be awful and disgusting and n0t good enough. I will always be useless and pointless. I will always be a burden to anyone who dare comes into contact with me. I will never stand alone because I am too much of a coward to do so. I chose this for myself. I’m the one that lets it continue. I’m the one who doesn’t change anything, who sits back and whines but makes no move to alter my existence. I am the cause of all of my problems—I take full responsibility for that at least. 

Why was I born, I wonder? Why would someone bother to go to the trouble?

I haven’t had a restful night sleep in days. I feel like a frightened little girl again, running from these monsters, the people I don’t want to remember. My weakness is what I can’t stand. I still have scruples, and somehow that is terribly disappointing. I am not free of this place; I will never be free of it. I can’t just dish out what is deserved and face the consequences without fear. I can’t walk up to my boss, tell her to go fuck herself, then not be concerned about what kind of problems would be caused by it. I can’t call up the shift manager who was rude to my mother on the phone this morning, and say, “You know what, you talk to her like that again…”.

This is a world of limitations caused by fear of consequences. And I hate it. I hate this world and the people in it, and the way I allow myself for the briefest of instants to imagine that I could possible have a place within it that would ever mean anything or even slightly satisfy me. What is the worst of it, however, is not the people. It’s myself. It’s this person who can see something unsatisfying, yet participate in the game nonetheless, purely from being afraid. Afraid that something is missing, that there is more. What is there, I ask? 

Nothing could possibly be worth the suffering, the torment of getting up in the morning shaking, with tears running down your face while you try to come up with a valid reason to do anything at all besides put a gun to your head or a knife to your wrists.

There is something worthwhile? Oh, is there?

Perhaps that is the biggest lie. Maybe that is just the excuse we use in order to live without guilt and loathing on our conscience.

Finding normal.

It’s nice when I reach equilibrium again. It doesn’t mean it’s over, but it means I finally can get some rest. I had a very bad spell there, one that hurt more than usual. It’s just days of an aching sorrow and loneliness that  hate. And no matter what I do, it won’t go away until it’s through with me. But it’s through. For now.

If I had a ‘normal’, this would be it. Somewhere between hateful and numb, with a constant desire to be alone. Needing other people around is an idea that is almost alien to me; when I get pangs for that it comes as a total shock. It makes me want to die more than anything else, because it means that I haven’t shed all of this humanity like I thought I had. Then there are times like this where I feel like the power is electrifying; I need nothing. I am back to knowing that no one matters, and being alone is always best. It’s meant for me. It feels insanely perfect sometimes.

I’ve been doing bad things. Things I shouldn’t do. But there is nothing to focus on now but the shell that I live in, the sad little world that happens to belong to me. This truly is mine, more than anything else. I think at times, the fact that I am in control of this one thing, pulls me through when nothing else could. I know that it is not all left to everybody else.

I slept until three thirty today. I woke, and my room was so dark from the black curtains that I thought it might be five. It’s funny, but I feel relief when I know that means fewer hours to be awake. It means sleep is coming sooner than usual, night will be quick to overtake everything.

I won’t have to worry, because everyone will be asleep soon and I’ll be all alone again. Just like yesterday, just like the day before that. Small little reprieves to keep me sane for awhile longer. Such a cruel trick.

Inside the lies.

I feel like I can speak of nothing. There are so few things that can be said that aren’t incriminating to me at this moment, at least in my real life. Perhaps I am paranoid; it wouldn’t be the first time. I can’t go to therapy, because again, that would be far too revealing. No one can know that I have problems, as that is my dirty little secret and no one elses.

I feel the feelings of a liar; my intentions are to manipulate
Tear down without consent
Darken other souls, and never repent

Psychology is like a mine field. Just one mistep and one of my precious limbs will be severed off, if not my entire being. I feel strange about all of it, sitting in my quiet little place. She already knows my name too well. I will never speak of myself; that is what I have vowed. No matter how close it hits to home I CANNOT and WILL NOT say a word. I won’t bear my soul as some do, acting as though class is a purging ground and solution to all of the problems they were too stupid to understand without assistance. Fools. Ignorant bystanders of their own lives is what they are. I won’t be one of them. Not now, not ever. I won’t tell her that she’s wrong, and all these crackpot theories as to why people do what they do…were made by people who had never been there themselves. I have been there, I could give the answers. But I won’t. They don’t deserve to have a “why” to something so far beyond their comprehension. I give it to them and they will twist it, corrupting it and exploiting it for their own selfish endeavors. Then they will use it against me, as they always do. That I will not have.

What bothers me is that I feel exposed, as though my skull has been torn open and my brain is right there for all to see and ridicule. But it hasn’t been, I feed my own paranoia. It’s my own fault really, these feelings, I never should have asked so many questions. Maybe again I am paranoid. I can’t tell anymore. Everyone thinks I’m so certain, that self-esteem exists in me. I guess I have been a good liar, far better than I ever thought. I have them all fooled, and maybe…

Maybe I even have myself fooled to an extent. I don’t have to think about pretending anymore…it’s now automatic. The smile comes without struggle, the laughter, unhinged. The carefully gaurded words, all drenched with symbolism…they come out of my mouth with hardly a thought. It’s all a game to me, the lying game. I am not depressed. I am sure of myself. I love college. Life is a beautiful thing worth cherishing. I did not consider holding a gun to my head yesterday. I am capable of crying. I am not depressed.

But the truth is: I am a mechanical sheep in a flock of flesh and blood…and the world is too blind to even notice.