Wow.
I can feel myself slipping back. Walking to that place of the past I used to be in. Where I write and cut and cry and wallow and think and sink. I hate being such a cliché - the wrist slitting chick in eyeliner who writes in notebooks, listens to FFTL and sobs until she vomits because it makes that ever growing lump in her chest fade. But what are statistics and clichés other than things that happen often? I can’t even claim to be special or different because there’s a million other kids in the world going through the same problems; worse problems.
Even I will look back on these words and laugh. Emotions are so fleeting - move onto another and the previous seems so irrelevant and ridiculous. The bane of my life? A woman known as my mother.
Oh how I hate myself for saying this. Most of the time she’s the most wonderful woman in the world, but other times she’s an ignorant, screaming, swearing control freak who knows just what nerves to hit to have me sobbing on the floor.
No one in the world is satisfied with their lives. We all want a bit more, or at least something, but the way we handle it is the real life. The real thing which defines us. Everyone in my house hates their world, yet we all treat it so differently. My sister falls into fantasy, my father to work and gambling, me to blanking everything out. But my mother screams. She makes brilliant schemes for changing her life, gives us all lectures ordering us to put our souls on the line, slaves to help her, then doesn’t keep up her end of the bargain.
In a way I do this. I write lists and lists declaring what I’ll do yet I never, ever follow through. I have such idealic views of a future I’ll never even have due to sheer laziness. My drive in life has always been to be unique, different, myself… But in doing so I’ve only managed to work myself into one category: failure.
I don’t have much of a life, never have and never will, and I’m dandy with that. It never effected me so much when I was younger, but it does now. When I’m crying myself silly and I KNOW that even the simple act of having someone hold my hand and tell me it’s okay would be enough to pull me through. That the one thing I can’t have is the thing that would save me.. That’s when it hurts. When there’s no one there to understand, no one there to truly care. And I accept that it’s all my fault.
I find it very hard to bond with people. Very hard to discuss anything other than random bullshit. I can never find that connection on an emotional level. Probably because emotions aren’t exactly my strong point. There is no technique, no formula, no logic to it… Most of the time I’m just numb, anyways. I find myself eagerly delving into this black pool of depression just so I can feel. Feeling dead is making me alive. Even when I cry in the back of my mind there’s a relief that I still can. That I’m not heartless, that I’m not some unfeeling robot.. This wannabe individual’s salvation is in knowing that she’s just like everyone else.
It would be so easy to hate myself for fucking up so deeply on so many levels. Yet I refuse to. I’ve lost everything, hell, I’ve lost things I never even had in the first place, but at least if I still even remotely like myself I’ll be able to cling to the merest shreds of self worth, confidence, dignity… I can’t let go of those things, even though right now there’s absolutely nothing in myself to like.
I feel so empty, and this pity party aint exactly working’.
There’s so many random thoughts in my head right now.
Like.. Communication has always been my favourite thing. I respect people who can come up and say ‘there’s a problem, how do we fix it?’ more than anything. To be open about your feelings and ideas, not only willing to discuss your own, but ready to listen to other’s. It’s my dream to be such a person, and I don’t know where that comes from. Communication has never been big in my life. My family has always had the I’m-right-you’re-wrong-and-you-don’t-get-an-opinion-until-you’re-working-anyway kind of attitude. Basically, I’m banned from free thought and expression. Thinking about it, no wonder I’m so fucked up…
What brought all this on? The most explosive evening in my house…ever. And if you even had the tiniest idea what usually happens, you’d realise what a big deal that sentence is.
My mother is a control freak. I love her, but she is. She wants us all to do what she wants and when we don’t our lives are made a living misery.
I’m not going too deeply into it, but on all four parties, things were said which have needed to be said for far too long. Tears were shed and plates were smashed and faces were slapped.. And I wanted to scratch my wrists but my mum left enough wounds for me.
But part of it woke me up. For so long I have felt so numb. Ever since I came out of that period of depression there’s been something wrong, something dead, something rotting away. I haven’t been me. For close to six months I haven’t been myself and it hurt. My subconscious was telling me how wrong my behavior was… yet I never listened.
Now I’m alright, though. Now I feel like I used to feel. I can actually feel emotions… I can laugh and smile and cry and love and hate with a fiery burning passion. I can talk and jump and dance and eat and actually FEEL it. I can write and draw and paint and actually put emotion into my actions. I feel like the old me again.
And even though anyone who even bothers to read this journal hasn’t got a clue what the old me was like… I can promise you, she’s better than the corpse you used to know.