Wishing for Their Death to Mine

When I was very small I was smaller than I realized. Looking back I was a runt- and usually nature would have taken care of me…it did not. My body has fought and even now fights. First it fought for my health- 3lbs at birth and it fought. Then it fought against those that would harm me- abuse is the most common history in my story. Now- it fights against the thought of a very calming rest taken after a fast decision. I am beginning to think that human nature is war…war to others in regard to fears of what we see reflected into ourselves. It makes perfect sense that I am my own army and executioner.

As a child I would pray for my father’s death. I remember wanting to throw children against the wall the way he did me whenever they would spout- “at least you have a father”.

My mother was a weak human who told lies in her body language- lies that she was an independent woman who would sooner cut a mans neck than deal with someone who was abusive- this ideal began and ended with her- never extending to me…her child.

I prayed for his death…it never came.

I know what the sound of ice cubes hitting whiskey sounds like- it sounds like playing with my toys and not raising my head when he entered my room. It sounded like my mathematical education started with counting how many “Nasty sodas” he had before I needed to go to my room and be quiet. Don’t look up…nod and shrug…answer but don’t cry. Don’t breathe.

A warzone smells like whiskey and chewing tobacco spit in my face as he yells and my head hits the wall- “I…I’m sorry…I…..”- I never did anything wrong but you could have fooled me into believing I was the most vile and disgusting creature to exist. All his anger against my mother- her family- the bills….it all poured out when I would walk or sit…cry and it was worse.

I am sure I am to fault for my life- because at 31 I can not still possibly blame what happened right? But then tell me why I have to sit facing everyone in a restaurant…I have to know all exits…where was that man walking to?….why did he grab his child like that….what was that sound…why did they put their glass down like that?….why are you breathing like that…why are you looking at me….why is it hot…why is it small…why was I always…always so small?

I remember pulling large chunks of my hair out and not feeling anything but the warm comforting blood trickle down my forehead as my aunt-Patty….carried me into the bathroom at my grandmother’s house….”Why did you do that?!”—I shrugged and promised it did not hurt.

Nothing hurt…my perception of pain is so fucked up that I self harmed for years to feel and control everything….even now I enjoy getting fucked so hard you might question if it is rape- I just want to feel it….I need to feel it and finally….only….control it…..so please hurt me….but only at my request.

I prefer rum to whisky. I prefer my own death to his now. I prefer sleep to awake. I prefer music to silence. I prefer night to day. I prefer you over me…I prefer.

Midnight Till…

How often do we sit and question what we are feeling? I think my problems stem from doing it too often. The product is overwhelming- and I find questioning if other people are feeling similar things just as isolating. It might be from the fear that they are not feeling this…that it makes me alone….and just as quick as that thought processes I deem myself pretentious to “other” myself.

The ache of feeling unique, and hatred for wanting to be so makes me a polluted form of energy.

The most frustrating part of trying to carry this blog is wanting to have you read it with the inflection, parlance, and pause that I give while writing it.

I feel that time is rushing past in a manner that leaves me frozen in slow motion. I can not seem to catch a break in the rhythm to jump in…and after feeling this for so long it is easier to just sit and watch.

“All I did was fail today”… Oh Wonder- All we do.

^ That lyric seems applicable.

This is what it looks like when I can not pull my mind together enough to trap one idea onto “paper”. -Can not remember the last time I actually used paper.

I have decided to not move back to the east coast. Someplace that I called home for damn near a decade can wash away with every part of that life….I don’t want to possess that timeline in my life at all. I will miss the river, hikes, craft beer, coffee, and the parkway drives. I will miss the dog park for Bella- nothing more.

West- California? Cliché? Perhaps, but fuck it. I need queer…I NEED BIG….I need to feel lost at all times surrounded by people that I will never know. It is so much easier to pretend that at any moment they could change you.

I have such an overwhelming and demanding need to create something…but fuck it right-because you have to let yourself become pretentious to create anything good. I love art. I love music. I love creators. BUT- everybody who is such must tell themselves at some point that what they have made/sang/painted/written(note irony)- is important enough for others to seek. I know this point of view both holds me back and pisses me off. Blame my ex. I think she was honestly mad I was a better writer than her…because she said this to me at a time when I started to share my creations.  “I don’t think ‘I‘ could be so selfish as to believe anyone should have to read what I write…so I don’t share it” …..uh thanks for the decade of emotional stagnation.

“And California never felt like home to me” – Halsey -Drive.

If I make something good enough will you care…will you notice…will you love me….will you pay me….can you hide me inside.

 

 

 

New Pants-New Gender

Soundtrack for this piece-

“Sometimes I remember the darkness of my past
Bringing back these memories I wish I didn’t have
Sometimes I think of letting go and never looking back
And never moving forward so there’d never be a past”

“Just washing it aside
All of the helplessness inside
Pretending I don’t feel misplaced
It’s so much simpler than change”

Well fuck me…please? I am sure it would be ever so much more pleasant than how the universe is fucking me currently. I need new pants- all of mine are beyond the saving grace of an extra notched belt- or even some stylish suspenders. Going to the gym 6 days out of 8 has attributed to a more trim middle and broader shoulders. I feel like an odd upside down triangle.

Does anyone else listen to the same song on repeat for fifteen hours just to maintain the emotional regularity that it brings- No..? Ok then.

I think a trip to goodwill is in order. I do not personally care for the company in general but I am broke and need pants. Ideal pair would be black skinny jeans with perhaps a tear. I am anxious- the idea of these new pants is making me nervous. I know that being in such upheaval over pants is uncommon. I am uncommon…and uncomfortable.

I have been self harm free for 5 years-this means I have not cut or burned myself. I must admit that I pick at my skin- pull hairs out- and pop imaginary blemishes. I like to pick the skin on my lips-it is the most rewarding. It reminds me of passionate unhinged sex where your partner digs their teeth into your bottom lip while they shake at their peak and you breathe each other’s breath.

The reason for picking is anxiety- I am aware it is classified as harm- I am not going to actively acknowledge that. I will continue and not face it. I must have a release outside of compulsive pleasure seeking.

Black semi-skinny jeans with rips in them- masculine enough to hold me together while androgynous enough to release my internal seams.

I have been lucky enough in my life to experience every type of labeled sex- Hetero(female/male), lesbian, Hetero (male/female), and gay. Unfortunate in my life- one is calling me and fucking up my entire plan. They wear a pair of black ripped skinny jeans.

So in regards to the need for new pants- fuck what they are-represent-and hold against and for me in my future.

 

 

 

A Possible Metaphor For Life.

Song for this entry- listen and read.

I have kept this WordPress tab open for a week trying to perfect an idea to write here. I tossed around popular ideas and then just as quickly felt disgusted that I would allow myself to cater to anyone. I made a deal with myself- my mind- whoever the voice in my head is that sounds like television inner monologue. My conditions change from instance to instance- but, what I write here must be raw. The word raw has been harassing me this week. I feel raw. I write raw. I dream raw. I assume it means an exaggerated feeling of vulnerability. Most uncomfortable yet addicting state of being. I want to push it away but as soon as it leaves I miss it and search for it. I feel alive for the first time in ten years. After my ex left two months ago not even the pain reminded me what emotion and life was supposed to feel like. My history with self harm had me trained to believe pain equals the most intense and readily available form of “presence”. I am uncertain if this is untrue or just stopped being my truth after a while. I don’t miss the harm- just the life I felt afterwards.

Ten years- a fucking decade of praying for a zombie apocalypse- all so that I might feel alive if everything else was much simpler to measure up against. I have tried to kill myself- drugs, starving, sleeping. I was too scared to do it again but the feelings of it never went away- so I let myself fade inside. Almost four years ago I made a drastic change and my  mental health improved. I thought that was the end though- my emotional state of happy/sad/depressed/excited/anxious- all felt like my feelings were experienced through wax paper. Somewhere in that decade I did try harming again- only to be devastated in learning it did nothing. It was for the best I assure you.

The thing that entertains me the most is that aside of fighting suicidal ideation (with medication and therapy) I have this obsession with staying young- living – immortality. I often wonder if vampires have anxiety. Maybe the longing to live is explained in my selfish nature. I want to die if life hurts- if it is numb- if it is pointless. I want to live but live forever- to learn- to see- travel and grow. Neither of these choices work for me…and there is no option C -except to stay.

Am I the only one who thinks that words are meaningless; and yet I desperately use them in excess.  I have been talking to a stranger for a week. They found me. Came to me. Reached out to me. They are the most terrifying person I have come across in- a decade. They are the fault and founder of my new obsession with cathartic release and raw vulnerability. This is not a diary entry in which I speak things that are hidden and built up. I am writing this because I can not stop myself from letting my words escape me- directly to them…with no filter of reservations. Reservations and fear are not the same in this instance- I am scared- they scare me to no end. They know everything I am writing about them because I have already told them. They are a mirror and spill their words- fears and desires. So to this end I say: My addiction has become the pursuit of raw and uncomfortable vulnerability with them- a possible metaphor for life.