Check one box only.

There is a song by the Manic Street Preachers that says:

"I eat and I dress and I wash and I can still sat thank you–puking, shaking, sinking, I stand still for old ladies–can’t shout, can’t scream, hurt myself to get pain out."

There are tons of people that will tell you that this is all an act.  The happy face, the facade of normalcy, all faked for the benefit of someone else.

Honestly, I don’t know who I am anymore.  It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything that I just don’t know anymore.  Last night, I started to lose control.  And they thought I was angry at them, or trying to get attention or God knows what.  But this isn’t about them.  Yes, I ran.  Because all of the anger and the hate and the fear is there, it’s always been there.  But last night I felt it. 

I hate myself.  Not in an "I’m fat and ugly and I can’t look in the mirror" way.  I hate what I am.  I hate that I can sit here and write this because I have a computer and shelter and food.  I hate that I have enough time to hate myself.  I hate that I am an American and I feel sorry for myself.  I hate that I have less than a lot of Americans and I still hate myself.  I hate that I am weak and I am human and quite honestly I hate that I hate myself.

And I hate Them.  For taking my dreams and laughing at them.  For destroying me when I was too weak to take care of myself.  For being ignorant of everything I have to know.  For being happy, goddamn them, for being HAPPY.

I don’t remember what it’s like to be happy, to be free, to not feel overwhelming despair and fear and anxiety.  I don’t know what I could go back to.  This is my life, this is me, hate filled and angry and desperate.  Wanting something, but having no fucking idea what.  This is not what I wanted to be, I never wanted any of this.  This was not my choice and it’s not fucking fair.

But I can still say thank you.  I can still get up in the morning and do whatever They expect of me.  But I don’t know for how long.  I expected to be dead before now, long before.  I was never meant to make 18.  The future is big and vague and frightening and I don’t think I want to be there.