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.

A life walking backwards, never forwards….

Why is it that nothing seems to get better? I wait, wait, wait some more, yet it just gets worse and worse. Each change I make is a step backwards, never forwards as it had looked upon first glance. So many damn mistakes that I just can’t fix, so broken that the pieces no longer fit….

I won’t lie; it hurts to be this way, at least during the times I feel it. I’ve lost myself in writing, but it doesn’t matter, because it changes nothing, improves nothing…. When I stop typing I’m back to my life. It doesn’t just disappear or fade away, it’s always there, like a perpetual nightmare haunting me. I want out. There are only a handleful of words that bring feeling from me:

And my absolute favorite, Martyr.

There is not one word that can describe this hell in its entirety; it takes many. But it is a black hole of nothingness that is bringing me down, killing me. And in the end…I don’t want to be saved. I want anything but to be saved. I want to die, and I want everyone to shut the fuck up and just let me do it. I want the voices to stop, I want the loyalty to die out. I want everyone, for one brief instant, to realize that I am the liar. I am the fake human being that was pretending all this time, feigning emotions I didn’t have, smiling when there wasn’t a fucking goddamned thing in this shit hole to smile about.

Most of all, what I want…out of everything, out of all of this bullshit…. Is just to stop. To end. To be over. There was never anything here to begin with, and I live on for false purposes because I can’t sever that monster that wants to rape it all and break it piece by piece…. I want to fall. I want a bullet in the head more than I want breakfast.

Yet I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’ll wake up alive tommorrow, still breathing, still hating it. Still going on as the perfect liar…so fucking perfect that no one even knows.

Feel so good, feel so numb. Feel so bad….

I frequently seem to be having emotional changes. Some days I have some feeling. Lately, especially, I’ve been having these moments where I feel almost…normal. Then a day later, I am so numb that I can’t be touched by anything. It’s hard to deal with, to say the least. I’m used to constant changes in mood (i.e. from irritated to alright, to downright pissed), but not in the numbness itself. It is always there, clouding over what little feeling does make it in its struggle to the surface.

There are days where I am so numb I have no opinion of anything. You could ask me if I give a flying fuck about anying, and I’d just say, “I don’t care”. It makes indecisiveness look like a downright blessing. How can you form and opinion when you don’t care? It’s a weird question, and to any normal person, I’m sure they are saying right now, “You ALWAYS have an opinion”. No, actually, you don’t. When you just don’t care, nothing comes out of it. You can sort out both sides, give one more pros or cons than the other, but in the end you make no choice. Something in your brain dictates the words, “It’s all the same anyway…. What the fuck does any of it matter?”.

I have those days where my beliefs mean nothing, then other days where beliefs are everything. I’m hanging by a thread everyday, and no one even sees it. I’ve told my mom a hundred times that I don’t have any emotion…she just doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get much of anything, really. She has her interests, and her stupid ideas, and that’s it. She doesn’t even want to hear anything else outside of her little foundation, because she knows that hearing something else might change her mind. And my dad…I don’t even care anymore. He is all calm now that he has a job, whereas before he was constantly yelling and throwing his little five year old tantrums. It’s hard to think back to a year ago, it seems so fucking far away. Have I really made it, again? Am I still here after all of this? I don’t even have it bad, yet why does it feel like I am fighting every damn day tooth and nail, unrelenting?

I’m so tired. So fucking tired. Life hasn’t even started yet and I’m already exhausted and utterly worthless. I don’t blame my parents; I know they want the best, so I won’t allow myself to resent them, no matter what. But I resent myself more than anything. I want so much to be free, but I’m too weak to do it. I feel like I’ll never be ready, because I never even cared in the first place.

My mom set up an appointment for my driving test. It’s the 29th of this month. I would have liked to have scheduled it sooner, but unfortunately there were no other days available. If I can pass that, I’ll be halfway there. Halfway. God, how I fucking need halfway.

I hate myself for being a quiter, for giving up on college when it should have been so damn easy. Who quits when they don’t work, don’t have to pay, AND they are only taking two classes at a time? Me apparently. I just want to laugh at how stupid it sounds. But I’m so worn I don’t know what else could have been done. Money, that is the only way I’m going to b e able to free myself from this nightmare. And I already threw away my one chance at making good money. Now I’m going to have to try doubly as hard to get any sort of job that will pay over minimum wage. I’m going to have to start out lowest of the low, then work my way up. Quite frankly, I don’t have the stomach for any of it at this point. I just want to die and be done with this place for good, never have to think again, never have to remember how much pain it has been to just…exist.

I’ve been having dreams lately. They had left me for a long time. Now they’re full of things I hate, filled with randomness, and altogether torturous. It makes me not want to sleep at times. I haven’t been pulling myself out of my dreams lately; I don’t know what is going on. I can usually tell the difference, yet for some reason, I just allow the torture to commence. It goes on and on and on, and I don’t care. Let whatever happens happen. It doesn’t affect me, it doesn’t change me. I have stopped existing on an emotional level anyway. I’m not even lonely.

I think of people and it makes me sick. My stomach clenches and bile rises in my throat. I don’t know how I plan to get through a job, when I am always going to have to interact with others. That was the whole reason I left college, that and the fact that it was total bullshit, and disgusted me to the point of deeply considering suicide. And that will never go away, I don’t think. All I can hope for now is brief instances of numbness with fewer thoughts of death. I read all day so that I don’t think about it.

Is this how it’s always going to be, every goddamned day, every fucking year? On and on and on? Because you know what, none of it is even close to worth it! It’s a fucking disgrace, this place! And I’m still here, and the only thing I can come up with is the same thing that my brain seems to repeat to me….

I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t FUCKING care.

Rising above cowardice and fear.

I finally did it. I don’t know how, or why, but something rose inside of me. Self hate, perhaps? It was so overwhelming today I felt like that alone would kill me. Hell, just read the post before this one. I think writing it down as one of the reasons I felt so compelled for the first time in a long time, not to just stand around and let things go in a direction I don’t want to accept. It’s strange, because I feel nothing now that would have been expected from anyone else, not elation, not happiness, only relief, and a slight dread that I know will grow in the coming weeks when I have to stand by my decision.

It’s a fool’s choice, I know and accept that. But bowing down like a servile dog is so much worse, being a coward, being afraid of the unknown. What does it matter anyway, I wonder? Why should I be afraid of the future when I wasn’t even planning on having one? I’m going to try. I have to try. I’ll accept no less of myself.

I scoffed in the face of an “opportunity of a lifetime”. A college education that would more or less guarantee a good job, and better pay. I’m a moron, but who gives a shit, this is what I want. I asked myself, and this was the answer. I’m an adult, and I need to go my own way now, even if it scares me. This is the only chance I have, and I have to try. I’m so fucking tired of standing around and silently protesting—it’s over. Done. I can hate life and existence all I want, but the only way I have any way of improving things is by doing something about it. I’ve never been a follower, which is why I’m so infuriated at myself for not doing this sooner. I could already be well on my way to something…but this is no time to reminisce about what I could have done. I have now, at least, and I plan to throw myself into it to see what happens. I may turn out better, likely worse, but either way, at least this way I will not be an utter and complete failure.

Cowardice…it is something I loathe. The reason I did not do this sooner, admittedly is due to my parents. I was scared to death of facing them. My father…he does not deal with this sort of thing well. And his initial reaction, was, as expected, hostile. More or less him telling me, “hey I don’t control your life” in a sarcastic tone, and going on to state what I was wasting. Then he changed suddenly and got into a speech about family and how we “stick together” and so on and so forth—with a bit thrown in about how if ten years down the road I regret not going to college it’s all my fault and he’s not going to help me (I have to ask, why would I EVER ask him to?). It’s mixed; to be expected. It went over better than I thought, however.

I decided to do it in a letter, then face the wrath. My father has the tendency to interrupt and not let me finish, so not only do I get cut off, I lose my train of thought and can’t get my points across, which is exactly why I decided a letter would suit my purpose well. I made him read it through before talking with me.

My mother came into my room just as I was finishing what I was writing. She took it well. Of course this is after me telling her the same fucking thing about ten times previously and her saying, “I don’t want to talk about it” and getting into the entire blame-game mode, where she says “We were supposed to have a nice day without arguing” as though I ruined the day by voicing my discontent with my situation. Tell me, mom, is there any time I can talk about a problem I’m having, because it seems like each time I say something I get, “I don’t want to talk about it” from you. So you can see in a way why this took so damn long in coming out—there were quite a few reasons.

It’s over now. I don’t know what’s going to happen, for the first time in my life. There is no certainty in my future besides the fact that I will try. I don’t even know why I care. Honestly, I think I might have done it just to prove that I could, that I will try to do what everyone else so easily accomplishes. Prove that I am not weak nor worthless. As my father said “You’ve always been stubborn and independent. You’ll do what you want no matter what I say.” Once I give this a shot, that’s it. If this doesn’t work, nothing will. I don’t know what else I can do for myself at this point. I won’t be happy, I know that, but maybe it will be enough to keep me breathing a few more years. I have to get my license first of course, which will be fucking perfect…ahh, but hey, better than math homework and bullshit psychology classes I don’t believe in!

I’m taking a leap of faith. Faith in myself, which is in short supply these days.

You can’t fake a smile…or can you?

I feel at times as though there is something so incredibly wrong, something I just can’t seem to corner and intimidate into clarity. I know that I am supposed to be feeling things, to experience emotion, yet sometimes I can’t help but laugh at the thought of wanting to feel. The idea itself is foreign to my brain; it’s a piece that is not meant to be there. Yet I can’t rid myself of it…. It’s been implanted by every person I ever met, the way their lips twist upward in a show of…happiness, is it? You can’t fake a smile.

The real, genuine smile has been found to be just that: genuine. You can curve your lips just like a smile, and the best of the best can trick you into believing it’s real, but it is never the exact same muscle movement as the real thing. Scientific fact. Strange isn’t it? I guess that is so be expected from creatures who center their lives around other creatures for the intent of not only survival, but companionship. We were designed to feel, to be highly emotional, or so it is suspected.

Smiles don’t mean much to me anymore. They bore me with their falseness for myself when I use them and irritate me when I see them upon the faces of other people. I admit that I am a jealous person by nature; when I was young I was either the best friend or none at all. I couldn’t stand to be outdone, to not be held in the highest esteem by whoever’s attention I was in pursuit of. I broke myself of the habit when I realized the “attention” wasn’t all that worth having. But that jealousy, it still beats its tattered burnt heart somewhere in this shell of a body, but now it is only reserved for…other things.

Happiness is one of those things. There are only a very select few people in the world who don’t infuriate me in their happiness, and otherwise I don’t enjoy seeing people happy; it angers me that that is something I can’t acheive through means of self-torture or internal reflection. No amount of throttling to the soul will cause it to bleed such an emotion. I can beat it all I want, I can control everything I’d ever want, yet never will those more “cherished” emotions come into my grasp. Dark things don’t get to feel pleasure beyond whatever darkness gives, I suspect. We do choose who we are, no matter what is done to us, but I think a lot of the time the reality becomes so collapsed upon itself that we forget that we were the ones to make such a decision. It’s a whirlwind, and it won’t stop just because you have to make a choice; it keeps going, to hell with what you need.

I damaged myself. I hurt myself more than anybody ever could have hoped to. I feel it now, that overwhelming sense of my own desire for destruction, how far it went…. Too far, perhaps, it might be said. But no, not far enough, never far enough. Part of me wants to see this to the end…that delightful finish that would be a culmination of my weakest point and strongest. Weak because of giving in, strong for going through with it. It’s funny to me that the weakness I so loathe would be my final undoing, the only way to truly experience complete control over something…. I think that is what I look for: power. I want it more than anything after a life of playing the forgiving, albeit unwilling masochist. Always back for more, it seemed. Pathetic dog that knows nothing but a cruel touch, hates it, yet felt as though it couldn’t go on if there was no attention at all. And in the end it wasn’t all those people that killed me…it was myself. I was always the one to laugh at myself, to scathingly lash out at every little flaw…. I was above and beyond heartless, and still am. I lost whatever it was that is inside of everyone else. I stopped pretending to want other people in my life for any reason beyond selfishness, of getting something I wanted from them.

I keep no company but myself. No amount of sick pictures that I draw can emulate the feeling I feel toward myself. The hate. I keep asking, ‘just how stupid are you?’. People talk about being shy, or having a low self esteem. I’d like to give them a dose of what I feel, let them have a nice bitter taste…. It’s beyond words. It’s like being held underwater then pulled back up just before you pass out from breathing in water and trying desperately to hold your breath. Picture that over and over again…every time you get a breath…that’s one of those occasions where you don’t feel like breaking every mirror that was ever witness to your face and the soul behind it. But even then it is a feeling of, “Oh, you’re not so terrible a person. Just weak and exceptionally stupid.” And the air? It still hurts, burns your lungs, almost unwelcome compared to the blackness you would have gotten from passing out. It never stops. You are subjected to a life of near drowning in a black pool of everything that you never wanted to be.

It’s the smiles that I hate. It’s that physical reaction to a feeling inside that I am no longer capable of. My smiles are few and far between, and I’ve found that even those slight things brought on by my own sadistic reaction to some pitiful situation (real or imagined), feel all wrong when made with my mouth. It tingles afterward, and not in a good way. It’s skin stretched too far over crooked teeth, leaving behind faint lines for a few minutes that show the world my lack of self control. If I can’t stop a simple simle, I can stop nothing. As a consequence, I am nothing. I won’t smile anymore, except when the time comes where I am on public display being scrutinized, or am in the presence of my parents who still believe that I am perfectly okay, thank you very much. In the sanctity of my room I will not smile, because this physical reaction is just another unfortunate side-effect of being human. Human I am not. All of my emotions have become mechanical; the wiring is exposed and torn apart, unfixable. Broken. Just like every other part of me.

I don’t need a smile to remind me of everything in my life that I don’t have. If you ever catch a glimpse of such a thing know that it comes from the animal, that thing inside. Curved lips and barred teeth, a sign of my own hostility toward the world, and most of all…toward myself.