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.