Sunday, October 17, 2010

Industrial strength emo, now with triggers! No, seriously. This is your trigger warning.

It gets old sometimes, to always be about becoming. I wish so desperately sometimes that I would get there, get somewhere. If you're a "joy in the journey" type, know that some journeys are not enjoyable. It's not that my life doesn't have good times in it. I've had many good times, but on the whole it hasn't been good. I mentioned the possibility of suicide in my journal almost as soon as I could write, and yesterday I found an old assignment from high school where I was supposed to make a poster about my hopes and dreams, but I only drew a tombstone.

At the time I thought it was funny; it's not a morbid tombstone, it's light and pretty, brown on a white page with flowers and grass all around. I'm not obsessed with death, just very sad. And as much as I would like to say, "it doesn't matter, I'm over it, what happened two decades ago is staying in the past," it's not. It matters every day. It's impossible to say how you would be different if you hadn't been raped and neglected when you were very young; you can only guess.

Personally, I guess that I would not be obsessed past reason with gender, feminism, and violence. I guess that I would not be afraid of people. I guess that other people wouldn't find me to be as difficult, as standoffish, as prickly. I guess that I wouldn't be overwhelmed by emotions, past the point of coping, most days. I guess that I would at least have a shot at a healthy relationship with food. I guess I wouldn't wish I had not been born; I guess I would not find both abstinence and abortion preferable to the sick feeling I get when I think that I might put a child through something like my life.


Usually when I lie, it is because I'm afraid I would not be believed if I told the truth. This is the truth. I don't know what you would think if you saw the things I lived through when I was a kid. I don't know if you would believe that it was enough to justify how much I hurt. I am afraid you will think I'm just constitutionally disposed against being able to handle life. I am afraid you'll think I'm faking. I'm afraid I am faking. Sometimes I have to startle myself with the objective facts, remind myself that this is real.

Over the next few entries, I will be telling some of my story.

2 comments:

misssrobin said...

I totally connect with this post.

When I was in high school I wrote a short story about a girl who killed herself because of the intense pressures at home. Yes, my life. No, not my solution. But just barely.

I've been there with all the doubt as well; and I'm sure I will be again. That's how it works for me. Some days I'm strong and confident and others I'm so completely not.

I'm afraid it's not as bad as it seems; I'm afraid it is. Am I making myself sick? Could I feel better if I just decided none of it mattered?

But it does matter. No, there is no way to suck all the toxins out of my life and go on as if none of it ever happened.

When you are ready, write. I will listen and I will believe.

___________________________ said...

Hey, cool! I like stories!! :-)

It's probably also good for you. Talking/blogging about things allows you to provide structure and perspective on them, and in some sense, externalize them into narratives and constructs. This will probably help. Talking to people, and even blogging about things does seem to improve mental health in a number of people.

Btw, what music would you recommend reading during your upcoming posts? Any suggestions?

(I hope you don't interpret my levity as a lack of concern. I don't do "caring" well. I always feel compelled to be light on everything.)