I mustn't write at Pro. If I do, I'm afraid I'll say something vile and ugly. I'll suggest I'm leaving or something, even though I don't want to. That in itself is senseless, because I've not written there in so long that I am not even certain of my password anymore.
I'm scared of nothing, and alone, as usual. (I will write using full sentences, dammit. I'm a big girl now, a big stupid girl, and unemployed too. Grr.) Sin's gone off to the clubs in the city. Again. Squirt was around earlier today. I somewhat conned him into spending a tidy sum of money at the used CD shop. He's now the proud owner of the Star Wars Trilogy the way George Lucas intended it -- before Lucas re-intended it or some damn thing. The real Jabba's Palace music! Yay! Also Hackers, because he's never seen the end to it (foul blasphemy!) and The Matrix, all the VHS. That last is because I turn 22 next month and I'm a good big sister when I'm not telling Squirt to buy stuff. Hee.
Fear my elite typos. Grrrr. *eradicates all she finds*
I keep feeling alone or pent in, with no medium. It's getting tedious. If I stay at my mom's house, it takes not an hour for me to get fed up with her telling me what to eat and how to dress. She really does that, too. Gah. She's worse than I'd thought. If I stay at my house, for the scant length of time it's still mine to inhabit, Sin's not around and I get dreadfully lonely. Bah.
...I didn't have a fun Easter. Daddy didn't call. I should have expected as much; Mom told me to, but I really thought that he'd changed after the last time we talked. I'm stung. Next topic.
Sadly, it's not a happier topic. I spent Sunday morning cursing at God, daring Him to smite me and thereby end my miserable existence. Fuck you all, fuck people, fuck everything. The Voice in my head tells me to consider inpatient treatment. It thinks I'm that fucked up, and it's probably right, but I'm loath to have myself committed.
I will not freak out, dammit all. I only wrote of being locked into a room. It's not really happening, brain; there's the door, it's just a wooden door, it's hanging ajar and the lock is on the right side, there no one to lock me in, I will not BE locked in. Breathe. Inhale, exhale. Look at the lock, it's on the right side, the side I control. I'm in control.
*curses* Well that went swimmingly. Swimmingly like a brick. *grumbles* Hell, I really ought to be sleeping right now... felt I owed something to my readers, I guess.
I don't want to leave my house, but I'm getting confused. Sin says I could work as a secretary but my mom says I'm not prepared. Sin says the house is a great deal but my mom says it's overpriced, particularly given a few structural flaws. Sin says I need to stay here to feel okay but my mom says I need to get away from there.
I don't like being pulled in two directions. This is why I've customarily had a single best friend while I was growing up, and no other friends half as dear. It makes life so much easier until the girl leaves and I'm adrift again.
Better free to find one's own way than tugged ceaselessly into pieces.
I don't understand normal people! How do they find the energy and will to live, day after day? How are they able to get out in the world all the time? What enables them to escape their caging domiciles and traverse their towns?
Most importantly, do they bottle such verve?! Please tell me I can get this for myself, somewhere, someday!
Bah.
I suck. I'm going to try to avoid major self-hatred here, but I certainly am lacking in good, healthy behaviours. I've gotten all of one job application turned in.
ONE.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr. And whenever I've been to that store as a simple customer, I handle things with ease. Whenever my task there involves a job, though -- getting the form to fill out, turning it back in -- I manage to behave with spectacular idiocy. Mleh.
I should just splurge on a digital camera and try to sell my images for amateur net porn. It seems to be the only open line of employment for which I am decently (or indecently, as the case may be) endowed by nature. I'm on the tall side, with ample bosom and broad hips, yet I somehow manage to have a waist. It's not frightfully narrow, but it's smaller than my hips, and that suits me well enough.
Eh, my preternaturally pale skin would reflect the flash and ruin my images.
Me? Cynical? I, who won the title "Madame Cynic" in my high school philosophy class? But of course, dear reader!
Why do I suck? Do I really need to commit myself to a locked and padded room?
There's no locked room here. Exhale. Slower. Look around. There's no cell here. It's home -- for the next few weeks, then it's a bittersweet memory -- and there's nothing bad here.
You know, besides the housemate who likes to undercut my self-esteem by exposing my every flaw, the cat that constantly reminds me by his very existence that I can't even manage to support a fecking pet, and certainly not myself. The girlfriend of a housemate, who likes to park in my spot, a penchant that once resulted in me having to move my car and skirt a police car with lights flashing. That was a big panic festival. Yuck.
Yeah, Sin, my life here is just peachy. At least I know where to park at my mom's.
How do people go on?! How do they convince themselves that they have intrinsic worth and value? How do they jam their emotions in a mid-range, instead of letting them bob out of control between two mighty poles?
How do I tell Sin that I can't have a job or rent the house another year, which means that he and several others won't be able to afford the place? How do I tell a friend that I am too broken to suit his purpose, that I must allow myself to melt away before I can be practical in the slightest?
I don't want to get locked away, I don't I don't don't let them take me. No. I must speak properly, cling to what vestiges of maturity are allotted to me. I don't want the lock to lick behind me, on the wrong side, where I'm stuck and I can't get out, they won't let me out --
-- is this something I should explore or release? I can't. No. I won't! If I show myself as broken it's wrong! People won't like me unless I hide it. Mash it down, further down, until even I can't find it again. Nobody gives a fuck whether I am whole or not. Duct-tape the interior and spackle the cracks. I don't have to hold water if I can pass myself off as cheap art. Pretend, hide, mask; keep the cosmetic effect cute and the interior decay means nothing to anyone.
**snip self-hatred**
Nobody would give a flying fuck anyway. They say they do, to uphold their own looks, but nobody cares enough to take me by the arm and strike me, force me to behave better than I know thus far.
I want my razor. God damn it all, I want my razor. But I can shower in scalding water in the morning.
I don't even know what I should be fighting for! Do I belong at my current house, with a perpetually absent housemate-cum-friend and a cat not my own, or what?
I think I'm supposed to sublimate myself and go into intensive therapy. With the locks on the doors. They lock the doors behind you, even behind visitors, when they come. You can't leave once you're there, if you need it that badly.
I want my razor! Dammit. And the hall light would bug my housemate. Need light. Light and open space. Maybe I could leave the bathroom light on and my bedroom door open. Or crash on the living room sofa with the dimmer switch set low, but on.
Sin told me not to complain about what I could change. I'm not supposed to say that I want a kitten, because I could (says he). I told him then that I wanted a winged kitten, and he laughingly told me that I shouldn't say that, either, because he thinks that if I want such a thing badly enough, I could make it so.
I envy his faith in me, despite its severe misplacement. I don't doubt that, if I wanted it badly enough, I could devise such a pet for myself. The problem is that it gets so hard to care!
One fecking job applied for. That's shameful.
It's not fair. I'm not getting better. I don't understand. I got counseling and I swallowed the pills the doctor told me to take and it didn't get better. Why didn't it get better, when I still had the strength to try?
I want to go home, but I don't even know where home is anymore. It used to be online, it used to be a farm on the hill, it used to feel like home. Maybe I don't even have a home anymore. I just want somebody to hold me and tell me that they love me. I wanna get a hug from my mom, even though I just did yesterday, and I want to her tell me that she loves me, no matter that half-assed idiocy I may commit.
And yes, I still want my daddy back. I don't understand why other people can having loving daddies, or adoring stepfathers, or even caring male role models. Why them, God? What did I do wrong?! What did I do to render myself unworthy of a man loving me?
What should I do, God? I'm so afraid and You seem to want me to collide with my fear. Will that make it all better, God? Will scaring myself with the depths of my own psyche really improve anything? I need a path, God, a road which I can walk without stumbling like I so often do.
Why am I such a mess when my father has everything together? No, I know this one. Nobody has it all. Those that appear to are displaying a false happiness. Daddy doesn't know shit. He just makes it look good. He makes it look very good, actually. If that contentment is an illusion, I don't care. I want some of it anyway.
I'm scared, God. You want me to hurt, and hold my open wounds for You to inspect. You want me to surrender my future, uncertain though it may be, to You, without knowing what You plan to make it into. I'm cold, God, and I feel alone somehow.
I'm going to bed, God. Buzz me when You've decided where my life is going. With me at the wheel, it's only headed in a slow downward spiral.