Triggers: sh/si & anger.
I’m beginning to get nervous every time I start feeling anything vaguely positive. It wasn’t always this way. I used to be proud of myself, for getting through the stuff I did and still being able to love and trust. I used to be proud of my battlescars. I used to think that actually that whole journey was alright, because I lived. No, I Lived. I’d have defined myself as someone who could roar across her own terror to grab life by the throat and make it my own. I thought it all balanced out – the black despair and the intense joy. It was the maximum possible goodness that I could wrestle from the fragments. I kept headbutting through it all somehow and carried on feeling good about some things – as good as I ever felt bad.
There are things that generally get said first during adolescence, that I never did.
You can’t trust anybody.
Love is a lie.
Emo stuff like that. I’ve always maintained that love is the most important thing in the world, and that trust is a choice. Those are perhaps the things I cling to most fiercely. I still believe them. I do. Feeling them has become difficult. It never was before. Never … and I am really struggling with the change. Who the fuck am I? I know the things about me that deserve my own respect and love. I just can’t reach them anymore. I feel broken beyond repair and I’m tired of pretending I don’t.
I believed in checks and balances, now it’s chaos theory. It’s a crisis of faith, isn’t it? One day you wake up surrounded by the goddamn bomb blast debris of your own existence and bam, life and time and the world suddenly have absolutely no meaning at all. I try to focus on other people’s happiness, try to be community focused in a mostly virtual and sprawling way. It works, it really does, but it doesn’t stave off the loneliness and alienation for long. It doesn’t stop those old, old feelings my abuser taught me – that I am definitely worthless and unwanted. A goddamn sodding fucking poxy leper.
If sheer force of will could have overcome things … well it did for a while. And now I’m sitting bleeding in the rubble and oh fuck fuck FUCK but I am miserable and exhausted and pissed right off. Life … world … fuck the both of you, fuck all of it fuck raging because the tears hurt too fucking much fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Endings are rarely happy, everything is not always ok. It isn’t always a choice. We just apply clichés like bandaids to try not to tumble into the gaping, howling maw of the abyss.
The moment I start feeling quietly slightly positive, something sneaks up and makes me feel raped, filthy, deathly. And that motherfucker is a pretty new thing. I don’t like it. I want hope back.
There is no fucking hope.
None. Not for me.