The Guilty

I realize that I’m not conventional. People say that, psychology scoffs at the notion, yet it is the truth. I spend the majority of my life buried under layers of cracked facade. There are very few places and people that can bring my comfort level to a point where I don’t feel like it’s necessary to complete paint over my true nature. After all, this is the sort of world where much of the time, how you dress is more crucial to getting a job then what you really know. Posturing, all of it. Dress the part, act the part, be the part. Simple as that. In the end though, for someone like me, there’s nothing fulfilling or meaningful to all of that.

I’m beyond that stage, at least for now. I get to sit here as long as I please, with my hair matted and unbrushed for three days, wearing the same torn, baggy clothes, with fingernails so long they get stuck in the keys of my keyboard. I should be sickened by how unkempt I am, but I find it all strangely liberating. I paint for hours, then I dawdle, lose myself in a dream.

I’ve been watching a lot of television, which isn’t the usual for me. I want sound, mostly, so if it isn’t some travel show, then it’s music. If not that, then I listen to the filter on my fish tanks. Which I have two of, by the way. They’re massive, and quickly becoming an obsession. I’ve spent so much money on them that it is a bit unsettling. I have two little eels that like to bury themselves in the gravel, and little ghost shrimp that swim aimlessly through the bubbles. I have snails and cichilds, and ghost knifes and plecos and angel fish. They’re my own little biospheres, little underwater, alien planets. Fuck up one thing, and everything dies. I learned that the hard way. Some of the fish are so sensitive, that the slightest miscalculation will make them ill. I spend hours cleaning the rocks and tending to the plants.

God, the plants! I can’t stop buying them. And the bulbs. I’ve been growing them nonstop. I trim and rearrange and move things around tanks constantly. The whole thing is growing ridiculous, but I suppose all I have is time, and I enjoy it, which I suppose is what counts.

In the end, I find it rather pathetic that the only creatures I can come to care for on such an extensive basis are the ones that can offer me very little as far as psychological connection. I love to watch them, but they certainly aren’t a dog or cat. They won’t love me, or sleep in my bed with me. They appreciate being fed, and some seem to even recognize me when I come to the tank, but that is all I get. Somehow I don’t mind. Sometimes I wonder if this is how god feels: satisfied but detached all the same.


May cause thoughts of suicide

Everything has slowly been coming together. I don’t know whether this is a shitstorm and I’m just in the eye of it, or what, but there haven’t been as many hurdles as I might have expected. I’ve been more or less selling whatever I can get my hands on in an attempt to save up some money for a down on a new house. Yes, that’s right. You heard it from me first: I’m moving out. I’m so fed up with everything here, that I finally decide to pack up my shit and leave. My mother has been more or less harassing me non-stop since I quit my job, and I’m through taking it. I’ve been earning enough selling my artwork to buy my own things and get gas for my car—not once having to ask her for money. Not that I ever would; I have too much pride for that. But just the same, I find her mentality insulting. It’s this unspoken assumption that I haven’t left her because I need her, when in fact, it’s been more out of loyalty than anything. Loyalty I certainly don’t owe her.

She came into my room screaming the other day. I was asleep, and she started yelling and crying hysterically, asking me why I would lock her out of the house. When I told her I had been sleeping, she rounded on my boyfriend, getting right in his face and accusing him of having purposefully locked her outside as a joke. Uh, so, do you even know my boyfriend, I wonder? He’s about as nice and supportive as they get, and he’s hardly going to be running around playing stupid jokes on people. And what’s the weirdest part, is the whole time she was screaming (yes, literally), she was all hate and bitterness and cruelty. I have never really seen her that vengeful, and it was over the stupidest thing. She was acting like my boyfriend had tortured her dog to death or something. It was bizarre, and entirely unexpected.

He tells her he went outside for a minute and locked the door when he came back in, not knowing she was at the store. Locking the door is a big thing around here. You have to lock it. Always. Which is fine; it’s their house and we have some shifty neighbors, so I don’t protest. Well, we also have a inside lock that folds over. Not quite a deadbolt, but close. So when she gets home (my boyfriend told me this part of the story later), instead of being a normal human being and knocking on the window to be let in, she starts slamming the door against the lock over and over, more or less throwing a tantrum like a child. Really? Is that really fucking necessary? I get locked out of the house at least 2 or 3 times a week; I’m used to it because of how anal they are about locking the door. I usually call them on the phone and have them come open it. So, needless to say, this was fucking ridiculous. And I know that he’s not exaggerating, because I’ve seen her slam the door like that before.

Once she’s done screaming and he tells her he didn’t do it on purpose, she offers him this hysterical, angry apology (the whole time crying so hard she’s almost unintelligible) that’s more like a reprimand than anything, and storms out of the room. I’m up in the loft and immediately force myself to crawl down the stairs half-asleep to go confront her in the kitchen, where I tell her to she needs to back off and learn to control her temper. I’m tempted to yell at her, but somehow, I stay calm even though I am seething, and I go back to my room and don’t talk to her for the rest of the day. Better yet, I call my father at work and tell him what happened. Later, when I walk out into the hall, I see that the deadbolt is removed entirely from the door, and my mother has gone to bed early. I hate playing the snitch, but I’ve been in this place before, and the last time, my mother ended up telling her twisted version of the story, and causing my father to more or less round on me in that odd, detached,  quiet-voice way of his. When I finally was able to tell him my side of the story, he completely switched sides, which caused an all-out screaming fight between him and my mother.

I don’t know what’s going on with her. She has never acted like this before, and she made my boyfriend really upset, which in turn, pissed me off and made me upset. He has been paying rent since he got here, and when I was working I was paying it as well. I don’t know if she’s resentful that I’m not paying it, or what, but we constantly are in these stupid conflicts about what we can or can’t do in the house. I rarely even invite anyone over because she is so standoffish, yet I don’t protest when she invites whatever distant relative to come peruse my room. Which, by the way, regardless of whether or not the house belongs to my parents, is still my room. I’ve payed for it, my boyfriend is paying for it. I think we deserve at least one place to call ours. I don’t even go into the rest of the house for the most part, and I don’t talk to her during the day except here and there. I spend most of my time working on art in the shed, or over at a friend’s house. I do my best to keep everything orderly as I am capable, and I cook my own food. I’m literally like a ghost here, which is why I don’t understand her behavior.

Not only that, but she insists on doing my laundry and cleaning my bathroom. I’ve started cleaning the bathroom regularly to keep her out, but she still does it. And the laundry I’ve given up on, even though I prefer to do it myself. It’s almost as though she can’t let go or something. Yet when we started looking for houses (before the fight), she claimed she was never going to visit. Uh, okay. Am I supposed to be sad or something? Quite frankly, I just don’t get it. I think she grossly underestimates just how much of an asshole I can be when provoked. I also don’t think she realizes that her actions are making me hate her. She has done so much for me over the years; I am the first to admit that, however that does not make me her 5 year old child whose life she can control in every aspect. I’m just tired of it. I’m tired of arguing about things constantly, and I’m tired of being on the verge of hating her because of it. I just want to make art and be left alone. I’m tired of her looking down on me because I don’t have the same drive as her. I’m working, aren’t I? It’s not like I quit my job and am sitting on my ass making her pay for everything. Fuck. I’ve been earning my way, even without a traditional job.

My boyfriend and I found a little house we’re thinking about getting. It’s kind of a shithole. It’s small, thrashed on the outside, and stinks like I don’t even want to think about, but it has a nice, fenced yard, and the little house has possibilities. The inside isn’t in bad shape, and it just needs a really thorough cleaning. I’ve already talked to my father about knocking some walls down and putting some up. I’d take it just to get out of here, so I don’t have to constantly feel like I’m going to be thrown out at any second.


I don’t think my mother realizes just how close I was to checking myself in somewhere when I quit my job. I have so many things I need to work through, and I know I need help, but because of my twisted sense of pride and because I thought my parents would think less of me, I’ve been trying to handle it on my own. Being creative is helping, but there are still times when I have to mentally list the reasons why I shouldn’t kill myself. It’s disgustingly short. The whole ‘you need to go to work everyday’ mentality makes me feel like a useless, pointless idiot, even though I technically know it doesn’t mean anything. I’m earning as much as a part-time job, and it’s slowly increasing, and I keep telling myself I have nothing to be ashamed of, but I’m hard on myself, and I think part of me is angry that I’ve been backed into this corner.

I also know I might never get this opportunity to explore my love of art ever again. It’s now or never, and if I’m patient enough, I can make this work. I just need someone to stick with me and have faith in me. I’ve somehow, despite the odds, found someone who is willing to do that. And for that, I couldn’t be more grateful.

Eating away time

The one thing I can’t stand about art is my own unforgiving criticism of my own work. It’s so bad at times that I generally give up when I’ve only just begun. I have no faith in my abilities, and I’m trying to figure out where that comes from. Low self-esteem, I suppose. I’m doing this one painting on commission, and I’ve spent well over 20 hours on it. I’m caught between hating it and trying to give the recipient what they want. What is desired isn’t aesthetically appealing to me, so I just keep sitting in my chair staring at the damn thing, scowling and cursing at it under my breath. I should be perfectly capable of backing away and realizing that it is what it is, but the urge to pick at it is irresistible. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for the last two hours, sprawled out on my floor, glaring at the damn thing. I’m exhausted from doing it. I’ve been at it since 9 this morning, off and on, and now it’s 7. And I can’t stop. I don’t understand it, but I can’t stop. At the same time, I want to lift the huge fucking thing and throw it out a window and into the road so a car can run it over. 

I’m irritable and tired. It’s like the telltale heart; a pulsing, beating thing that can’t be ignored. It’s going to keep wriggling in my brain like a worm working through the meat of a rotting apple. It’s fucking there, leaning up against the wall. And yeah, I’ve got issues and that shit is STILL fucking there. I want to finish, strap it in a box and send it away. But it’s not done, it’s still not done after all that damn toiling. 

How can something be so hateful and consuming when it’s not speaking? But it is speaking! It’s fucking hideous and oh god, did I really spend all that time on it? And if I don’t spend more time on it, it’s never going to get better and I’m going to have to send it wrapped in a paper bag because I’m so ashamed. But if I spend all night on it, it’s bound to get worse, but if I leave it for tomorrow I won’t be able to sleep. It will be there leaning against the damn wall, this wretched monolith magnifying my insecurities and humiliation. All night. And I’ll see it in my fucking mind’s eye and it’s not going to go away. My hate for it is not going to disappear. 

Even if I cover it with a sheet, I’m still fucked. It’s going to take hours to fix that garbage. 

I know where you’ve been . . .

I’ve been trying to keep busy. I get distracted easily, so it’s been really difficult for me to pin myself to one project or other. I keep starting things. My desire to do anything to better myself is extremely low. My eating habits have been terrible. I think I am just adjusting to a life without strict structure. I’m used to going in and having a plan, telling everyone what’s expected of them, and having a plan even for myself. Now everything is so open and uncertain. Sometimes I wake up too late to do much of anything. My boyfriend suggested that I make a list of what I’d like to do, and that has been working somewhat. 

I keep picking things up to read, but now I’m reading five things because I can’t stick to one. I haven’t been doing any art because I am too restless. I’ve been writing mostly, which fortunately has been helping me a lot. I forgot how much I loved it. 

I’ve arranged for a week away. The location is far away from everything and everyone. The woods back it endlessly. I’m a little nervous about staying by myself; my paranoia is very severe when I’m alone. I also tend to do things I normally wouldn’t. I’m planning on drinking at the very least. I need to let loose. Some severe vomiting and self-loathing should do me some good. I’ve had no way to vent my frustration over the last six months and I know I’ve hit overload. I think some punishment might help me get rid of it. I feel so pent up with rage that there are times that it feels like that is all I am. I want to have release without judgement. I want to do it without people scolding me for my lack of self-control. If I want to mutilate myself and bleed, it’s my business. I don’t want anyone’s help this time. I just want it to play out how it does so I can get over it. I can’t seem to do it without someone standing in my way. I’m tired of people protecting me; I don’t need to be protected.

I don’t think anyone understands just how much I need this. I am not sane without it. I will lose control of my life if I don’t. I can’t begin a new chapter until I acknowledge  what I’ve done and the consequences of how it has played out. I want to be something. I want this plan to work. I want to be a legitimate writer so that I never have to be put in that situation again. But I am so full of self-doubt and anger that it is impossible at this point. I can’t move.   

I want to spend those days out in the sun. Heat or rain, I’m going to be out there, exploring. I’ll probably have to go on foot because none of the quads are working very well and I’d rather not bother with gas. It will be better for me to walk anyway. I don’t want to be around anything human for a short time. I’m going to take my phone but try to restrict my usage of it. I’m going to bring all those books I’ve been trying to read and my computer so I can write to my heart’s content. The main reason I am going is to get a good start on either editing my current novel or starting a new one. I still can’t decide if I think the old one is worthwhile. It feels really childish and angry now. I can’t read through it without cringing. I’m too lazy to begin another one though, and I have very few ideas. I did start something else, but I’m not sure where I was going with it. 

I’m going to go as soon as a few things play out. Depending on the outcome and how long it takes, will determine when I leave. I’m hoping it will happen in the next few days so I can leave in the middle of next week sometime, but I suppose we’ll see. 

Facing demons

So tomorrow is the big day. I have an 8 page letter—not so much a letter of resignation, but a letter of defence. I haven’t quite planned what I will say just yet. I know that when I get there it will come to me; it always does. I just never thought it would be me, that I would be the one to step forward, ever the willing lamb to the slaughter. I’ve never been particularly keen to stick my own neck out, but this time I feel like it is for a purpose.

It’s just a fucking job. And goddamn it, I know I am good enough. I’m not weak. I have always wanted to be the forceful one, the person that others both feared and respected. I know I don’t seem like much, but I swear I will spend this pathetic life proving both them and the voice in my head wrong. I’m not doing this for them as much as for myself. I need to know I can do this, that I am capable. All the people who matter will back me when the time comes. It does pay to have friends in high places, as they say.

The outcome, oddly enough, is completely irrelevant. The action in and of itself is everything. I don’t believe I will be given what I desire. I believe I will walk away with nothing, however, there will never be a time later in my life where I will look back and regret what I didn’t do. This could be an entirely new start, or it could be the continuation of what I have already been doing.

I’ve been far too wrapped up in this. I see now that it truly doesn’t matter. I will fucking make due. I’m a resourceful, spiteful, pissed-off Satanist, and by Baphomet, these fuckers are not going to intimidate me. They are about to get a very rude awakening, the lot of them.


I’m not really sure what happened today. I spent over 10 hours at work, and I was so stressed out I didn’t take my breaks, or really get much of anything productive done. I’m getting pushed higher, slowly but surely. I’m slowly taking over other peoples’ responsiblities, and I can’t help but doubt myself. They all have a good year of experience on me, and though I think I am getting better, I can’t help but believe I’m still not good enough, just like I always thought. I’ve come a long way from not being able to go up to a counter and buy something, to where I am now—blatant customer service every day, all day.

I had a customer yell at me the other day in front of several people. They all turned to look, and in that moment I reminded myself that the foolish man didn’t matter, and nobody was going to dare try to humiliate and bully me in a room full of strangers. I got so angry I was shaking with rage, and trying to keep my voice calm and bite my tongue was extremely difficult. I had to clench my fists at my sides and smile. I wanted nothing more than to drag him across the counter and beat the living shit out of him. He would have deserved it.

I want to better myself. I want to learn this game as best that I can. I feel like nothing but a shackled bundle of secrets. It seems like all I do is lie, to the point where sometimes I can’t remember what is real about me and what isn’t. 

No one can know what is locked away inside.