I Live In The Memories Of The Abuse And I Truly Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Out

tldr; i need to get the fuck out of my head

the idea of it is so liberating, quiet, and eternal; yet at the same time it is so horrifying, parlous, and uncertain.

i am a phony man, a paper tiger. sometimes i feel like i walk around with a plastic trophy of survival on display, presenting myself as some sort of phony symbol of courage, of survival. i walk around with glass skin, fractured and stained, and i know people see the cracks. i know i am breaking. you do not have to gaze upon me with such contempt. i am a sunbittern, flashing my wings, making myself look big. to protect myself? maybe, that’s what i like to tell myself, but i know it boils down to attention. it boils down to my sickening desire to be seen as something more than i really am. i make my trivial successes seem like home-runs, i make my words sound more significant than they really are, and i make my survival sound more epic than it really is. i am a liar, a con man, with my immaturity and pseudo-boy mentality. i was born a liar, and i will die one.

i guess there’s not much to tell that hasn’t already been told. i was forged in a broken household seemingly forgotten by god. i was raised by a broken man with skeletons, and bottles alike, in his closet, and a woman sipping whiskey and spitting violence between her prayers; both killed by their poisons. i used to take strikes at the hands of those who were supposed to protect me, with my body tallying the score. i still feel it, you know. that fear. i feel it all the time, like i’m just waiting for the next blow. i know this is odd, but sometimes i wish they were still around to hit me, i wish i had more proof than distant memories. i wish i had something more than a faded recollection of my mother’s venomous words and firm hand, and my father’s brutality. the only proof that’s substantial is buried in my flesh. however, i forgive my father, sometimes it seemed like he was just a scared boy in a worn man’s body. my mother on the other hand, is not so easily forgiven. her wrath and rage ran deep, and when it was fueled by the liquor, it was hard to believe a mother was supposed to love like that. but she was a girl too, alone and fatherless. i think about her as a girl and it makes it harder to believe she was so cruel.

i don’t really know the point i’m trying to drive home. i just feel so behind, and i’m constantly running out of time. every second that passes is a moment of time i’ve lost, and the overwhelming majority of them are wasted. i waste so much time smoking pot but it’s the only thing that makes me feel okay. i can’t do school, i can’t take care of myself, i can’t properly care for others, and i can’t seem to clean my room no matter how bad i want to. and i know it’s a whole mindset thing blah blah blah, i’ve heard it all before. i know i’m not getting much better at all, and i know the habits preventing me from doing so, yet it feels like i’m completely trapped in cycles. i am so tired. and this is a bunch of word vomit bullshit and i don’t think anyone will read this far. but i am just so fucking bad at being human dude. i am a complete failure. i have accomplished nothing, and i don’t know how to be alive. i don’t understand things that most people do, and i just can’t seem to do anything functionally these days.

i guess for now i won’t seek out what is beyond our existence, but the thought of doing so taps at the back of my skull to the tune of gymnopédie no. 1, a haunting constant in my mind.

i just wish i was normal so bad man

“I appreciate your concern. None of this is your fault. It’s me. It’s me and my head.”

— Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Violet Dickinson written c. January 1909

I’ll drink myself to death inside this prison cell

feeling like people do not like me as much i as i think they do

i know if you don’t like yourself is manifests and blah blah blah

but it just kind of feels like my self hatred is a stab wound and i can’t stop the bleeding and everyone around me has to wipe up the blood and i just watch as it stains their clothes and it feels like i’m frozen

whatever i don’t know i’m sure it’s not nowhere near as deep as i’m making it

i just wish i wasn’t the one initiating almost everything in my relationships

blehh :P

Kim Addonizio, “The Singing”, Tell Me

Shed your old skin or die in it

My friends gift to me a glimmer of hope occasionally; and when they do, all I can think about is how badly I want to see and know the adult versions of them. I think about how nice it would be to have an extra room, or maybe a pullout couch, at the disposal of any friend looking for a warm bed and an ear to listen. I think about them coming to my house just to ask for a cigarette, and to talk about their troubles while we sit on the porch. I think about how I’ll attend (and cry at) their weddings, and I think about how I’ll be with them through messy breakups, and all the inbetweens. I think about how I’ll have their favorite snacks in my cupboard, and how I’ll make sure there’s always an extra toothbrush for them. I think about how I’ll have toys stored away for their potential kids when they visit, and I think about how I’ll get to watch all of us grow up.

I often times think the only thing stopping me from ending it is fear, but I think a little harder about the people I love, and suddenly it feels like my heart is trying to claw through my chest, and grasp onto any hope for the future.

I want to be there to love those around me until I can no longer leave my bed, and my last breaths are be spent cherishing their names.

The love will come when it’s meant to The love will come when it’s meant to The love will come when it’s meant to The love will come when it’s meant to The love will come when it’s meant to The love will come when it’s meant to