stupid broken life.
almost every night, awful dreams about hiding, being emotionally stripped by what they do to me.
i don’t need to worry about money. i don’t need to worry about what career i should take. i don’t need to worry about how i look. pretty good huh?
every day i wake up and for a second i forget who i am. then the pain comes. it hurts inside, everywhere. all the time. it tints my vision. i am numb usually. i don’t feel real. nothing feels real. it’s my mind’s way of protecting me. so every minute, one minute at a time, i am alive.
always anxious. always needing to be loved. always worrying that the same thing is going to happen to me again. always afraid that someone i love will find me tiresome to be with and leave. i don’t blame them. hell, i wish i could escape myself. i found someone who i know is the best person i could be with. definitely now. probably for the rest of my life. i wish i were better adjusted, because he deserves me at my best. then we could be happier together and i could help him, too. i’m scared that that won’t be possible in this life. i am an atheist but if reincarnation does its thing and i become someone or something who is not this broken and can make him happy, i will fucking find him, wherever he is, or whoever he becomes. i don’t give a shit if i become a table or something. i am going to make sure he is ok.
i am 21. that is not a significant figure. but sometimes i feel so old and so tired. so many scars. i remember how i got the biggest ones. i can still feel them at the point of collision. but like eating or sleeping or taking a shit, it is difficult to remember the other ones as their frequency…well, i used to take a dump twice a week. good week if the dump-to-beatings ratio clocks below 1:1. little things. and almost every day, being told i was useless, a shame to the family, hateable. that my face needed surgery. ever knowing that sometimes when my parents look at me, something on my face inspires them to hate me. being jealous of my friends because they never got beaten for the things i did. being beaten for things i never did. being blamed for everything that went wrong in the house. never being trusted to do anything for myself, even when sometimes i took care of everything in the house. even my siblings hated me, for being a clumsy nerd. and somehow being my parents’ favourite.
now they like me for some reason. probably because i’ve grown up, and i look better now. probably because people say i am smart. probably because i’m funny and interesting to talk to. probably because everyone i date is smart, attractive and successful. with good personalities. fuck off. you had no part in this. i hate that their love is so conditional, and only for an idealised version of me. i already know that they hate who i really am. i just don’t act like that around them.
i think i am sour because i had such an unstable upbringing. i think i’ve managed to offset a lot of the negative effects of what they’ve done. the only thing i can’t do for myself, is know that someone i respect loves me and will always care about me. even when all signs point to the fact that i do, and probably will. i’m just waiting for them to get sick of me, weary of me, tired of how emotionally high-maintenance i am, lonely because of my condition, realise being with me isn’t worth it. fucking catch-22. it doesn’t matter where i go or who i meet, the insecurity, the lack of emotional stability, the sickness. i tow it with me. it’s all mine. i wish i were adopted and have awesome adoptive parents, and to have had a happy childhootd. that is all, really.
i’ve spent so much time figuring out what i need, and now that i know, i realise it is so difficult to have now. i hate this. i hate all the scars. i hate all the fear and the pain and my you-are-unloved gland secreting at the drop of a hat. i don’t want to live like this anymore.
i think when people die, the only people to feel sorry for are the people who stay alive. it will feel exactly like how it felt before you were born. nothing. i don’t think i’ve ever been truly happy in my life, although i have been extremely happy. it’s just low-tide for the pain, the sadness, the emptiness and the neuroses. sometimes very low tide. but it always comes back. and it’s predictable. at first i didn’t expect it, but now i’ve resigned myself to it.
i am miserable when i think about life. when i think about death, when i’m very aware of its attainability, i am usually already half in the belly of the void. but for some reason death seems like the most amazing gift i could give to myself. if i wouldn’t hurt anyone. if the people who cared about me are comforted in the fact that i just took an early vacation, and that they would be with me eventually and we could hang out in eternity. death feels like the only way i could stop hurting completely. comforting me. sometimes death feels like my real home. i am so homesick. i am going to therapy and making friends and taking meds, but i still feel this way.
i am so homesick.