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September 8, 2013

My story is a very sad one. The part that makes it the saddest, is that no one knows it. My history and its cruel character is one only I feel. You know when girls get raped, or beaten, it’s easy to relate to them feeling really small. Unfortunately there is nobody in this world who gets me, and I don’t think anyone ever will.

It’s impossible to convey an emotion when you don’t have the words for it. And it’s impossible to convey an emotion when its source is so outrageous that nobody will ever acknowledge it. If you fall, and are in pain, people will console you. If you don’t get what you want, and feel that pain, people will tell you to suck it up.
The pain’s there, but you’re alone with it.

From a very early age, actually as far back as I can remember, I was taught that voicing discontentment was complaining, and it wasn’t okay. Crying, being angry, raising my voice, it was all absolutely forbidden. It was immature and selfish, and I shouldn’t say it out loud. Just find a way to deal with it. Keep it contained though, by all means. Think about others first, they are always more important than you.
I feel spoiled, continuously. And I act that way, even though growing up I wasn’t actually spoiled. But I behave like a first class spoiled rotten child. I’m demanding, and needy, and entitled, and I can’t stand it when people don’t pay attention to me.
Every time I’m not happy about something, I feel guilty. As soon as some kind of wish pops up in my head, guilt comes right after it. Whatever comes at me feels like it should be enough. And when it’s not enough, I struggle to assert my own opinion about it.

It’s easy to make material decisions; I want this bed. I want an iPod. I want a smartphone. I want a tv. I want this and this food. I want to drink this juice and eat these dishes. But don’t ask me what I need from other people emotionally, please don’t ask me what I deserve. Nothing, I don’t deserve anything. Leave me behind, please, I can’t stand this closeness.
People tell me I’m strong, and it makes me tired. I’m tired of explaining that I’m not. Does anyone ever consider how rejecting it is when everyone tells you you’re wonderful? All my feelings and beliefs about myself are being denied. No, you’re wrong, you’re not what you think you are. YOU ARE WONDERFUL WHETHER YOU WANT TO OR NOT.

I wake up wishing I was someone else. I go to sleep hoping I’ll wake up with a new personality trait, or less of the ones I have and hate. I breathe regret, about what I am, did or said. I browse the internet looking at pictures of people who seem happy, sorted, I read blogs of people who have a little house with furniture and projects. Hours are wasted with this sick ritual of peering into strangers’ lives, wishing I could somehow be in there, instead of here. Not because they’re careless, they’re not. I even love their problems, the appeal is in the sheer fact that it’s not mine.
There is no escaping my skin, except for substances. Substances numb the discomfort of my existence.

Abuse is the only relationship I can suffer. It’s the only one that acknowledges me, the way I truly know that I am. The way that everybody refuses to accept me. It’s amazing what the lies people tell themselves, can do to you. Let me tell everyone this; showering someone with compliments is not helpful. It hurts. It puts someone down even more. Disregarding someone’s flaws as if they’re not there, never even naming them for fear of making them real, it doesn’t help anyone. It induces shame, guilt and depression.
The household I grew up in pretends everyone’s perfect. There are no flaws and if they somehow show through the cracks, it’s good form to ignore it. It’s absolutely smothering, and disables any and every opportunity for wholesome acceptance. Both to muster and experience it.

I’m intolerant. I have no patience. I have very little self control. I’m impulsive. I’m very critical of others, and myself. I’m competitive, and get very angry with myself when I’m not the best. Sometimes when my animals do something I don’t like, I hit them disproportionately hard. I’m afraid I will hit my children, like my father did. I’m jealous when I see a beautiful girl, but at the same time I want to be around her to feel that inferiority because I like punishing myself for not being perfect. Rejection drives me up the walls. I treat my mother with utter disrespect, same with my older brother -both are better people than I will ever be. I absolutely ignore my father unless I need something from him. When I’m angry with someone, I enjoy being able to hurt them back. I think in extremes and my understanding of the world is childishly divided in black or white. I tell myself I’m helpful to others, but it doesn’t ring true when you realize I just want to be accepted.

I’m a bitch. I scream it, I wish someone finally believed me. Acknowledged me. Let me exist.

Woman

August 3, 2013

I’m going to write this post because I think some of these thoughts could be helpful to others. My boyfriend doesn’t like it when I write on here without talking to him, because he wants us to communicate directly. Which is surprisingly demanding on his part. Writing here is often the only way I can let my emotions float freely. I should probably create a blog somewhere else, where he can’t read it.

I am just. So. Angry. At everything. At life. At things going the way they’re going. At him, for asking me if I’m “getting some good rest”, what do you think you fucking moron. At myself for not being stronger or better adapted to the situation. At him, at him, at him. He’s usually my source of comfort, but right now my voice is actually suffocated by anger. I can barely breathe anymore from all this fucking disappointment, anger and sadness that I’ve been swallowing, munching and forgiving.
It’s like a disgusting worm of pent up shit that is wriggling its way back up my throat, digging a hole in my chest.

I’m so angry that I’ve bent over backwards to be dependable, reliable and responsible, to always make sure paperwork, tickets, flights were well taken care of, to prepare things for when he would be here. And I never got that in return, never. I’m angry that I’ve read countless blogs, books and websites, committed to learning about alcoholism and how to be the best partner for him. I’m angry that even now, I’m angry at myself for being obviously codependent and therefore the only real culprit for my feeling this way. I’m angry that I’ve felt completely alone in all this.

sarcasm

He’s the alcoholic on his throne, anyone who can’t deal with that, is just codependent. Nobody can ask or expect him to never drink again, he’s the poor alcoholic, isn’t he? You can’t wait for that promise, you silly goose. He will drink again, and you should be prepared for that, as a good wife! And you will be supportive, and calm, and you will forgive him, because he’s a drunk and he can’t be held accountable for this! You can’t stress out about material shit, and you can’t lay too much on him, because it will stress him out! You must be FLAWLESS! Prepared to give him space when he needs it, but be close when he needs comfort! You must be patient, not expect his sobriety IN THE LEAST and BE INDEPENDENTLY HAPPY. When he’s passed out drunk in a dark alley, at any mugger’s mercy, you should NOT CALL 911. That’s your cue to take a nice hot bath and have a careless, 10 hour sleep!
His only priority is to go to AA and work on his sobriety, you as a wife are just a CRUTCH -especially your cooking skills. You should be prepared to raise children on your own, and to let him be the FUN PARENT who plays dangerous games with them while you’re not looking!
He will lie to you regularly, but you will STILL trust him inherently! Your own honesty will not be rewarded or acknowledged, it will be taken for granted every single day. In fact, everything will revolve around his AMAZING accomplishment of not having drunk for 24 hours, and EVERYTHING YOU DO will PALE IN COMPARISON NO MATTER WHAT. Besides the exhausting life of the alcoholic’s partner, which entails emotional sensors, x-ray fucking vision into his thoughts and chameleon-like abilities to adapt to his waves, you will also have a JOB AND CAREER because he won’t always be able to work or keep a job. You will NEVER FAIL to work your job consistently, but he will flutter from job to job, occasionally fucking up lifetime opportunities. SUCH IS LIFE.
Don’t expect empathy for your role in the relationship from him, either. Never forget that HE IS THE VICTIM OF THE DISEASE. When you get angry, he will counter it with excellent quotations from the big book and you will have to admit YOUR OWN WRONGS. It sucks! But for the marriage to work, YOU will have to do all the work. Many nights you will feel alone, hurt and tired, but none of it will matter if HE is having an amazing day! He will fucking mesmerize you with convoluted mindgames until you’re involved in some kind of fun activity he came up with! It’s GREAT!
Whenever you do something UNEXPECTED as a reaction to his drinking, he will suck up ALL YOUR SPACE and DEMAND that you reaffirm your love for him. But, never forget, YOU are NOT allowed to take his drinking personally. YOU are just the crutch, and you should just KNOW your place even if he gives you no reassurance.

This is your life now. You are that woman.

You

February 13, 2013

I was a mess, before I met you. My life before you was like the wildest of William Turner’s oceans. There was always a storm blowing, a ship sinking, a tumultuous sky pushing me down. Unpredictable waves washed away my self esteem, furious coats of foam covered my successes, opaque clouds blocked the light out from my vision.

Turner

My experience with love had been that of an employee; deliver, or you’ll be fired. The only significant relationship I had before you was quite pathetic. A sick, sick man stuck his greedy tentacles in my bare bone marrow and sucked the innocence out of it. I was so low that he found a way in. I couldn’t see, so the dragon wore a coat of feathers. I furtively touched his back and trusted he was a harmless turkey -he sounded like one. Blinded by my youthful insecurities I followed him like a sheep does any man carrying a stick.
He himself was lost though, led me into the barb wire, and fed me to the wolves to save his own skin.

Oh if only I had loved myself more, I wouldn’t have been susceptible to his awful spells.

But it did make me stronger. He taught me that I deserve much, much more. He taught me that loud mouths have skin deep wit.
Your unconditional love and respect have changed everything. It’s only since you’ve loved me that I know that threatening to leave me isn’t a normal way to deal with difference of opinion. It’s only since you’ve loved me that I realize being emotionally blackmailed isn’t an actual punishment for some fault of mine. It’s only since you’ve loved me that I can see my shortcomings without being afraid you’ll resent me for them.

I hate how words fail me.

You are the strongest man I have ever laid eyes on. I used to think strength was power, making other people do things, I used to think authority over others was the externalization of someone’s inner sway. It’s only since you’ve been in my life that my eyes have slowly been opened to what true strength is.
When you are wrong, you can put your pride aside and admit it. I had never been around a man who could do that. You are always on the hunt for things that you could do better, and you consciously make an effort not to look for the same thing in others around you. You rarely complain, and when you do, it’s an aware and premeditated indulgence. You shed light on so many levels I don’t even know where to begin. You showed me that true strength is relentless attempts at bettering oneself. It’s not so much about the result, as it is about the readiness to change. And the acceptance that there is no such thing as a goal, but only a journey and willpower. Willpower is not something you’re given a limited amount of, it’s something you use to relinquish thoughts and feelings that weigh your heart down.
Forgiving without reservations takes honesty and humility, and you have more of that than I knew was possible. I had started to believe men like you were only real in the movies, but fuck me sideways here we are.

You are my example.

Demolition

February 11, 2013

When I was 16, I was diagnosed with ADHD; an attention “deficit” with hyperactive behavior manifesting itself. I’ve been going to a science based group that helps hyperactive people to understand themselves and their environment, I’ve taken behavioral group therapy to learn to listen to others, I’ve read a lot of literature concerning the phenomenon, been very alert to anything appearing in the media about it. Unfortunately, it seems many people don’t think it’s a real Thing. ‘It’s been applied so loosely’, used so often that it simply isn’t seen as an issue anymore. “They’re just busy kids”. Well let me try to write down what it’s like to be a busy kid.
Today, scientific research made it clear that we don’t suffer from any deficit in normal circumstances. It’s only in a quiet, demanding classroom that we become apparently maladaptive; our brain cannot push enough energy to the frontal cortex for us to remain concentrated. There’s an equal amount of glucose in the brain, but it’s indiscriminately repartitioned and the consequences of this are well known behavioral problems; unawareness of the volume of our voice, not being able to block out certain stimuli, having a hard time containing our own bodies, …

Only recently I’ve started to consider that maybe something about my lifestyle is an indicator of my cognitive functions. For instance, sitting on my bed, with the laptop on my lap, the tv on (muted, but the moving images reassure me), a cat running around and usually a documentary playing the background of my internet browser, is the only way I can truly unwind. When it’s quiet, I’m uncomfortable and will make all kinds of noises myself. Slapping hands, singing, talking to myself, throwing objects around.
I tried to find a track of music that can even remotely convey how it feels to be in my body. This one comes fairly close, I must say. Let me warn those who aren’t hyperactive; it’s loud, it’s aggressive and it mows down your auditive hair cells. Personally I recommend wearing headphones so the volume doesn’t have to be exaggerated, but it will probably still sound absolutely horrific to most.

The best way I can explain waking up inside my scalp, is to compare it to a continuous impending explosion. My body feels too small for what is happening inside it; I feel a million things, thoughts shoot through me at the speed of light.
These words fail to adequately describe it, this won’t do it. Let me attempt to break it down, for someone who has organized thoughts. This should be extremely difficult, but it could be an interesting exercise (this took me like 2 hours of editing, reading, having it read by my mom and deleting parts that just went off on a huge bender that was neither here nor there).

Although I’m convinced I miss 80% of what happens around me, due to failing neurotransmitters and poorly distributed glucose in my brain, it feels like I see more than anyone. My nerve cells are continuously aroused, they have a firing rate that well exceeds their biologically efficient threshold. My frontal cortex, that should allocate energy to certain clusters of brain cells, does nothing of the sort. Instead, it is constantly focusing on keeping the impulsive, nervous activity of the body contained sufficiently to not get negative feedback. My legs feel like they are constricted in a cage, they need to be kept still. I want to run from one place to another, but know now that it makes me look completely insane and therefore I shouldn’t. Inhibit, inhibit, inhibit. Don’t raise your voice, don’t lose your patience; not everyone is like you. Don’t throw things, take the time to walk to where they need to be and place them -GOD it feels like for ever, WHAT A WASTE OF TIME.
The animal my mind is contained into, is much, much too small for what it’s thinking. My brain has this little monkey-like being at its disposal to externalize some of its thoughts, but it just doesn’t cut it. The monkey gets burnt out very quickly; by 4 PM it’s exhausted, and even less focused than it was in the morning. It gets worse towards the evening; by 10 PM it’s all over the place. Cleaning up its room out of pure despair, in a fruitless attempt to feel tired. Please, be tired!

When I lay down in the evening, the covers feel like they weigh a thousand pounds. My legs want to kick all over the place, and I need to put effort into not moving them around all the time. Try to relax, apply some mindfulness exercises they taught you when you were a child. Don’t bite the inside of your mouth, don’t chew your nails. Don’t grit your teeth, relax your leg muscles. It’s only right before sleep that I realize all the tiny muscles that were still completely locked up.
Watching tv is the only way I can force my brain into a sleep-like state, that can maybe drift off into true rest.

A conversation can be torture. Especially when people are talking in long sentences, or are slow to get to the point. I forget 30% of all the information given to me at all times, if it’s not written down. Especially numbers are usually lost on me. But I can’t force people to speak to me in ADHD-adapted communication, that’s not very realistic. I’ve constructed ways to register, like listening to the tone of voice to know what’s the emphasis, paraphrasing to check if what I heard is accurate. I’ve also taught myself to use empathy to remember what people said; I put myself in their shoes as they speak, and remember the emotion rather than the specific information. Or I play what’s being told in a video in my head, and the image can be kept more easily than the dry facts. It makes it much easier to recall what they meant.

Also, I feel harder, deeper and more strongly than anyone I’ve ever met. This may seem like I’m boasting, but it actually turns me into the least mature, most deficient and least controlled person in the room, so no, this isn’t boasting. The way my emotional curve vibrates throughout 24 hours is like some kind of seismic bulldozer. It’s… awful. Just awful.
Anyone can say I’m just indulging myself, but I have gone through hell and back trying to learn better ways to cope with all of this. I can tell myself a million times that I’ll be calm today, by 10 AM I will still be giggling, talking loudly and disturbing the class. There is absolutely not a single thing that can be done about this, the only solution is to take interactive classes and try to channel the energy into a constructive thing. Like being the student that gets to come to the front after the teacher showed us what to do. By the end of the school year, every teacher knew that they had to let me move around some in the classroom, or I’d be impossibly nervous. There’s no willful disrespect there, it’s something I would change in a HEARTBEAT if I could.
I cannot even begin to explain how many times I’ve gone to bed wishing I was different. Less impulsive, less loud, less of a bull’s eye. But no, these are the cards I’m dealt, my brain doesn’t work like yours. It’s not my fault. I don’t care what the media say, it’s just not.

There are upsides to this; I can get done single handedly what would take 10 non-hyperactive people. And yes, I do finish what I start, generally. There’s obviously always the odd enterprise that never goes anywhere, but like I said, it’s odd.
When I was 17, one day I decided that I didn’t like the floor in my room. I went to a department store, bought wooden planks and put a new floor in there in one afternoon. Sometimes, on a randomer, I clean out, declutter and reorganize an entire room in the house. Other days, all I can do is sleep. There’s no telling.

What I’m saying is, a lot of people seem to think that ADHD is a term we hide behind to justify our busy, impulsive behavior. But it’s also an extremely tiresome thing, it’s like an engine pushes us despite our own limits. When I’m truly tired, it’s even worse! All I want to do, is to fall asleep for 3 days straight, but an energy that seems to be fed externally keeps pushing me. It’s really not all that *fun* or comfortable. Nobody chooses this. The resistance I hit when I walk into a room is not anything you may know. You can just walk in, inconspicuously sit down and do what you intended. It happens to me too, but usually I swing the door open too briskly and it makes a loud noise banging the wall, I sit down with too large a swing and something tumbles out of my purse or I elbow someone, or I walk so fast and so energetically my heels tap the floor like some Godzilla is thumping in –and I don’t even fucking notice the noise. Heads turn, voices mutter things about me, I get shushed. It makes me want to apologize for existing, if I could only do something about all this, I would!!

Faces

February 9, 2013

The weirdest thing is working with addicts, and going out on Friday with my own friends thinking “I need a break from all this druggie talk”, only to end up in exactly the same environment. This was the first time, after having been clean for over 2 years (2 years and 1 month, to be exact), that I legitimately wanted to use. I was mostly a smoker, and the high of smoking cocaine is like nothing you can imagine from a snort. It’s probably midway in between snorting and shooting.

A friend was in the process of ordering a few grams from his dealer when I arrived at the bar and he had some stuff in the car too. Two other friends had also paid for it and they all went to the car to lay out some lines. The temptation to go with them was incredible. It came out of nowhere and washed over me like a tsunami. I kept telling myself “I’ll just go with them to catch some of that atmosphere, just for the fuck of it, for old times’ sake”. But I knew I wouldn’t resist it, not this time. So I stayed in the bar, drinking my need away.

Later everyone wanted to go to a friends’ place, because obviously there would be more there. I came in to a small, crappy apartment with a couch dominating the room. Facing a gigantic tv, a laptop playing ridiculous music off Youtube and just… that coffee table. It hit me for the first time, that I used to get excited over this. I used to feel at home here, like it was all going somewhere. This time, I just felt kind of detached from most of them. Talking about strictly nothing at all, being shitfaced and high on mediocre coke, feeling like something was happening that was bringing them closer to whatever it is they want. Which is most likely just ‘more cocaine’.
The coffee table was a mish mash of CD boxes, of which the plastic was completely eaten and damaged from lines of very impure drugs being cut on there, rolled up bills, library cards with white, blurry sides and ashtrays. There were maybe 10 people in that room, but at least 20 ashtrays.

I left about half an hour later. They all knew my name, but I didn’t feel like I was with friends at all. They were asking about my relationship, my studies, my plans, but it had more to do with their own self esteem and needing some information to sculpt a standard out of for themselves, than with any kind of actual involvement.
I returned to the bar and sat back down with a closer friend. She’d done some drugs, but that’s inevitable, and she didn’t need more. For my people, that’s meaningful enough. By 1 AM I was home, which is ridiculously early for my doing.

The difficulty is diagnosing whether this was a bad day, or if my judgment has fast matured and I now see the sickness and the immoral character of all of it, that I could never see before because I was too close to it. None of this appeals to me anymore, and even though a good coke joint would have made me deliciously high as fuck, the way these people looked, talked or even behaved in general didn’t call out to me at all. Maybe it’s because these are also speed users, who are generally significantly less refined than strictly-cocaine-users.
This is just the cold truth. People who specialize in lovingly, dedicatedly cleaning their cocaine in a beautiful, warm, dimly lit living room and then slowly, respectfully smoke that shit are nothing like the dirty, shitty, poor, socially rejected speed users I walked in on last night. They should be my friends, and some of them I still feel close-ish to, but the group that existed last night was definitely not a club I wanted to have anything to do with. I’m both disappointed and confused.

The urge to buy my own stuff, clean it on my own time and with my own technique and then smoke it is very, very hard to suppress. If only to comfort myself that I was never that shitty. That it doesn’t have to be like that. That I don’t have to be making weird faces, saying ridiculous things or being an asshole to other people.

I’m actually angry at them, for being so disrespectful with my drug of choice, that I can never, ever use again. And they can, they got nothing. They can do whatever the fuck they want. And they choose to fuck it up, by spending money on bad stuff because they’re that desperate, by snorting it mixed with speed (that’s like putting ketchup on oysters) and by boozing over it, not even getting any of the true cocaine effect, however little it might be given the low quality of what they bought.

Fuck this.

Tequila

February 1, 2013

Last night started with tequila (my usual cut-loose strategy) and ended with gallons of beer. It was all nineties European house, which made me feel 14 again. Back when my sexuality was first unfolding, I was starting to experiment with flirting, going out, all that. I’m quite sure I also peed in the middle of the street with my good friend from school. That’s pretty bad ass for a chick, isn’t it?

It’s one of those days where I have responsibilities and have to go out and do shit. But I’m really furtive and look-at-the-floor about it because I don’t want to run into someone I know. Not only because I smell like several flavours of ash tray, stale sweat-vomit-beer and dried up alcohol, but also because I’m confused.
Whenever I drink hard and party hard (wait, I remember something about a dude who used to be in my brother’s class, and him asking me to go home with him. What.) the next day I’m incredibly puzzled. It’s not a memory thing, it’s the way my brain functions after dealing with alcohol. New information is hard to save, I’m touchy, I don’t feel all there. It’s as if everything happened behind an invisible wall and I’m not a part of anything.

There’s a meeting downstairs in the school library. Companies rent that space for their team building and other HR-kind of crap. Wait, that’s my head of department sitting there. She’s is filthy ugly, but oh so competent. I hate her.
One of them is obnoxiously loud. And I can tell every time he starts talking, the whole group of attendants is like “there he goes again”. They’re actually surprisingly polite, considering. He hasn’t been cut off once. I would have told him ages ago to fucking stuff it.

I’m jamming to INXS shamelessly in the library, and forgot my headphones so the music is actually blasting from the school laptop. I’ll ride this bitch until it runs out of gas; someone will eventually locate the outrageous sounds of funky music, and come tell me to stop doing this. But until then, the world is mine. Moving on to Prince. This is the most fun this place has ever seen. I need to take a dump because of all last night’s alcohol, but I’m in school and I’d have to take all my belongings with me.

I feel bad for saying it, but I feel awesome today and I love strolling past the boring penors in that meeting. I get so many looks. Now, wait a minute, there’s no telling if it’s my actual looks or the fact that I’m wearing jeans with enormous flowers on them, smell like Las Vegas and my hair is in a wild mess. Or all of those things.
What an uninspired bunch. All ‘smart casual’, literally, all of them. Jeans, a nice button-down shirt combined with those typical leather ‘suit shoes’, preferably with a long tip. For the classy look. Straight out of a stupid magazine, probably all married and/or in a stable relationship, have a nice little wife who cooks potatoes and saucage for them. They live in free standing houses or in the city, but their back yard is small because they have careers and mowing the lawn would take too long. And Wife doesn’t do that, please. Every Sunday, they take their car to the car wash. On Saturday, they do some kind of manly sport with male friends, like soccer -and beers after that.

I distinctly remember not bringing my camera with me today, because there are some terrible drunk pictures on there from last night. As if a teacher would be like ‘hey, you there, give me your camera which I know is in your purse, let me see all of your pictures and judge you’.
Is this paranoia?

This guy really won’t fucking shut up. His voice is loud, too. Maybe I should knock on the door and be like “listen. People are trying to study here.” My head of department would hate me, like I hate her already. The discrepancy between how washed ashore I look and the pious request for silence might make for a good middle finger at their organized, boxed look at the world though. Who knows, they might reconsider buying that town car, and go for the old timer.

Nah.

By far, this is the most useless post I’ve written on here. I also stumbled upon a stunning medical term today:
Atrial flutter (AFL) is an abnormal heart rhythm that occurs in the atria of the heart.

Bulldozer

January 27, 2013

It’s happening. I’m going crazy. Completely, irrevocably crazy. Everything is stressing me out, it’s like my nerves are being stretched out like they were designed for that -they’re not. Any situation weighs on me so heavily it’s like my limbs are going to break. I want to scream but I have no voice, or breath for that matter. There’s nobody to talk to, anyway.

It’s unbelievable how weakly adapted I am to normal, completely mainstream life. There’s things I need to do in order to successfully finish my last year, just like everybody else. But for me, this has to be a problem. Everything has to be a problem, because I’m ‘different’. The only kind of different that I am, is that I’m a piece of shit who succumbs to things she should be able to handle. And it expresses itself in some very ugly streaks.
This is whining. I can see myself typing it and I’m thinking to myself that I’m whining. I’m running feverishly through corridors in my mind, trying to find a door that opens to a room that contains some kind of peace. Everything’s locked, though.
I’m locked out of my own peace of mind, basically.

Beating myself up is an easy mechanism, it’s kind of cowardly. ‘Ahh, I make so many mistakes, ahh poor me I’m so stupid.’ rather than handling the reality of things. It’s like being chased by a monster continuously. I know that my thought pattern is wrong, and I know it’s not getting me anywhere or saving me. But I have no alternative and lack the strength to manufacture one on such short notice. The only thing I have, vaguely, to hold on to, is the fact that I’m thin and getting thinner. One day, I will disappear, and nobody will expect anything from me any more.
The upside of not eating, is that you’re weak physically, but you slip into it mentally as well. You become apathetic, compliant and docile. I am so sick and tired of being combative and aggressive. 80% of my life is conflict, fighting, inhibiting parts of myself. I want to vanish. I wish I could be so thin, I could hardly speak. My voice would sound like the wind, nobody would take offense to what I’m saying any longer.

The run I’ve been on, has taken everything from me. Sure, I gained some skills. Maybe I’m less ignorant than I used to be, maybe I’m less naive. Where I used to flatter my ego by thinking I’m holding the family together, I now know that I suffer because I’m overly sensitive, not because they were ever in the wrong.
But I’m out of solutions. There’s no resources left in my head to fix this. I’m probably beyond fixing. The only thing that can fix me, is to become quiet, reserved, turned inward. This goes against every fiber in my body, even when I start the day with the intent to be discrete that day, I end up being loud and somehow cornering somebody. Wishing I was someone else is a very habitual feeling, but it had been less of a sting lately. It’s back at full force now, if I could erase parts of my personality I’d readily strip myself of every ugly, selfish, misplaced, self absorbed or argumentative trait I have. If I could wish that somehow my heart would discretely and inexplicably stop beating, I’d sign up for it.

The only time I have succeeded in disappearing to the background, was when I wouldn’t eat. It was bliss. I was overlooked, oh what a wonderful feeling it was. I was finally the one who could go home after a school day thinking ‘I didn’t do anything wrong today’, because I hadn’t talked to anyone or done anything. I was never the one put out there anymore, never a bull’s eye. I was free. I want that once more. I’m tired of making mistakes, being in the wrong, being so awful. I’m tired of being a bulldozer, clumsy, left handed at everything. It’s time to be an adult and lose the childish imperfections.