09/22/2012
There’s this persistent idea of freedom that is more haunting than it is anything else.
I am not free.
And in America, land of the free and home of the brave, isn’t that a shame? But I am neither of those things, because without one you can never really be the other. I am not brave, and so I will never be free. My own fear holds me captive more effectively than any locked door or shackles could ever do.
What am I afraid of?
Rejection, probably, at the base of all of it. Because somehow, no matter how many times I say to myself, “Fuck them, I don’t give a fuck what they think,” at the end of the day I do give fuck. I want to be loved, or at the very least liked, and no one could ever love me as I am. But maybe they can love the person they think I am.
I’m shallow, I guess.
It’s like my whole life has been on this trajectory that I cannot escape. Every action has a logical follow up, and I follow this logical path even though it’s not really what I want. What I want is inconsequential, because I was taught to strive for the greater good and that hardly ever meshes with what’s best for me. So I’ve noticed.
What I want, more and more, is an end. I want out of this trajectory. I want out of these obligations and away from this life I am living that was constructed for someone who is not me. It’s a stranger’s existence, it is not mine, and it feels like a prison. Each new day is not an opportunity for change. They are an opportunity to watch opportunity pass me by in favor of maintaining the status quo that has been imposed upon me by what I perceive to be my own stupid selflessness.
I feel it needs to stop, but I have no way to set things right. I do not know how. I am irrational and overly emotional. I am imagining things, these slights are all the creation of an inherently selfish mind. It is not real.
Or is it? I can’t tell. It is easier to believe myself irrational than it is to believe that my family has manipulated me into a corner that I cannot escape. It is easier to believe myself selfish than it is to believe that they are using me. I resent them for doing it, for what could very well be considered abuse, but I cannot believe that they are doing it, and so I hate myself as well.
The bruises and scars say, “This is not normal,” and my mind translates that into “You are not normal,” and I don’t know how this happened but I can’t blame anyone but myself for it. Not without guilt, or backpedaling, or a crushing sense that I am just being irrational.
My inability to bond with other people is not normal, but it is easier to call that an innate character defect than it is to question what the fuck happened that this is how I turned out.
I cannot admit to weakness, I cannot trust, I cannot let my walls down and I don’t even know why.
I want to know why. And I think I do, but maybe I’ve just imagined it all. I’ve overreacted. I’m just weak, and if I was stronger I would be normal but I’m weak and so I broke instead. Or I was born broken. But it’s no one’s fault. Except mine, maybe.
If I need to blame someone, it should always be me.
Honestly, I’ve had enough. And I know if I do anything now, it’s going to come as a complete shock to everyone and it’s infuriating. Because they honestly don’t know. How can they not know? How can this be allowed to happen, and no one even fucking noticed?
How can it get to the point where I consider drowning myself, cutting my wrists, leaping in front of a car, overdosing…every day. Multiple times. How can it get to the point where watching the waves crash on the shore causes me physical pain from the longing to just fucking end it, and no one knows. How can it get to the point that I have no close relationships, no friends, no confidants…I’m 25 years old, I’ve never had a relationship, a boyfriend, never fucked anyone and never wanted to and people act like this is normal. Maybe I’m asexual, but my avoidance of sex isn’t just from lack of desire, it’s from an overwhelming terror of intimacy of any kind. I can’t open up like that, not to anyone, ever.
It’s not okay. It’s so not okay that it is completely fucking overwhelming and I don’t even know if any of it’s even fucking real.
I don’t know what to do with this shit but keep it locked down, ignore it, because if I address it then I might have to acknowledge that either I’m completely irrational or that other people have been hurting me, deliberately or not, for my whole life. If I am just
imagining all of this, then I’m a worthless, selfish cunt and I should just end it. If I’ve been taken advantage of, abused, and mistreated, then I’m a pathetic, spineless cunt who should…just fucking end it.
I think I’m losing it. Grasping at the threads as they come unraveled. Developed what I believe is a psychosomatic twitch in my left hand. Or I’m dying.
Car accident, maybe, wouldn’t be so bad. I keep imagining my body all crushed and mangled and broken and dead. I hate my body, so that would be okay. Destroy it. And me. It’s only a matter of time, I’d just kind of expedite things if I could.