Chez Moi
I wear my unhappiness and self-hatred around my waist in the form of extra pounds. I can't remember the last time I felt attractive and vivacious. The X kill my humanity almost as much as they help. I want to exercise but I don't; I attribute that discrepancy to X.
My eyes look dead to me when I look in the mirror. I'm still not happy and I'm assuming it's because I'm in the wrong place in life, through no fault of my own. Life is losing meaning again. I'm really out of touch with my feelings with no one to talk to. No sisters, etc.
I couldn't care less about my homework if I tried. It holds no connection to the outside world and I feel victimized by life and by the system again. So much trauma, I don't know where to begin. Sometimes I feel like one raw nerve, hanging out there for all to see. Everywhere I turn is painful; I don't remember how it feels not to suffer, or when life was effortless.
I feel doomed to walk in chains the rest of my life. So much of what I wanted has been beaten out of me; I've had the breath knocked out of me permanently. I really feel like a victim. What happened shouldn't have, and I am still in shock when I think about the scope of what's happened, and how many years and trials and struggles it's been just to regain normalcy; to which I cling with the very edges of my fingernails, usually to no avail, since I am smaller than it is; I've never felt so powerless as I have in the grip of this thing.
I really miss reading, more than I can say. I miss having an inner world.
I turn on the TV, hoping for an escape or numbness or a connection with another person, but never find it. Or, if I do, it's fleeting and disappears when I turn the TV off. I don't know why I can't make satisfying connections with others. It's definitely because there are no men in my life; I don't know if that's the extent of it or not.
People keep telling me I should do something with writing. I'd like to, but how/when/where? I don't see any current opportunities. Plus, I'd rather write by invitation than by self-promotion.
Every now and then I give up the fight, out of sheer exhaustion, but so far I have lived to fight another day. I guess I've had one of those overwhelming setbacks lately. Really overwhelming. I've been in much worse places than this, though. I have hope now because I know that some good things lie ahead, though they are laced with the constant pain of knowing what I've lost. That may always haunt me, and I'll never be as happy or optimistic as I once was. Ever. I know too much now. Shattered innocence, obliterated faith.
Sometimes I'm just holding on by a string, which is better than not holding on at all. I remember the road trip I took with my Pomona friends sophomore year, and how I was afraid to get to close to the edge of a cliff at Zion National park for fear I'd throw myself off. As battered as I was for as long as I was, I always knew that life could be good, and it was worth waiting around to see if that would happen again, or some remnant thereof. It's only after most of the suffering has ceased that I'm able to acknowledge just how bad it was.
And I know that the key to healing, if such a thing is possible, is telling my story in my own words. That is my only option. I have infinitely fewer options than I used to have (don't bother me about the misuse of "infinite," since it's not quantifiable; I already know that).
It's 9:25pm and I still need to review my presentation for tomorrow and work more on my paper. I absolutely despise turning things in late, even though teachers are understanding of my situation. X turned me into someone I hated, someone who sickened me. I abandoned myself, like a rat leaving a sinking ship. No, my grammar is not perfect; yet. Language is always changing, though, so I guess grammar can't ever really be perfect.
Language is the paintbrush with which we illustrate the human experience, in my opinion. As a kid I realized I had something to say, and that writing seemed to be the appropriate medium. Not sure why. I guess it's easier not to "perform" when it's just me and my written reflection; not much of an audience, which always taints me somehow. Being alone has been really hard all these years; my inner life up and left and I don't know how to reclaim it.
I fight and fight and fight to reclaim lost ground; I strive to reach that place in which I was when I was 5; I'll probably never get there. I've been out of touch with just how hard I've been striving/struggling, and how tired I am of it.
No one knows the troubles I know. No one is going to tell me to move on, not to feel sorry for myself, etc. I am the expert at my own healing. Self-pity and rage are some of the many emotions I have to go through to get where I insist upon going.
I can't describe how lonely it's been, how alone I still am. It's like I'm reporting from some distant planet no one's ever heard of; they're all smiling and nodding their heads but they have no idea. I hold I secret I do not wish to have; I did not ask for. I don't want it, but don't know how to give it away. This isn't my fault. I did not seek this out. It does not belong to me.
My eyes look dead to me when I look in the mirror. I'm still not happy and I'm assuming it's because I'm in the wrong place in life, through no fault of my own. Life is losing meaning again. I'm really out of touch with my feelings with no one to talk to. No sisters, etc.
I couldn't care less about my homework if I tried. It holds no connection to the outside world and I feel victimized by life and by the system again. So much trauma, I don't know where to begin. Sometimes I feel like one raw nerve, hanging out there for all to see. Everywhere I turn is painful; I don't remember how it feels not to suffer, or when life was effortless.
I feel doomed to walk in chains the rest of my life. So much of what I wanted has been beaten out of me; I've had the breath knocked out of me permanently. I really feel like a victim. What happened shouldn't have, and I am still in shock when I think about the scope of what's happened, and how many years and trials and struggles it's been just to regain normalcy; to which I cling with the very edges of my fingernails, usually to no avail, since I am smaller than it is; I've never felt so powerless as I have in the grip of this thing.
I really miss reading, more than I can say. I miss having an inner world.
I turn on the TV, hoping for an escape or numbness or a connection with another person, but never find it. Or, if I do, it's fleeting and disappears when I turn the TV off. I don't know why I can't make satisfying connections with others. It's definitely because there are no men in my life; I don't know if that's the extent of it or not.
People keep telling me I should do something with writing. I'd like to, but how/when/where? I don't see any current opportunities. Plus, I'd rather write by invitation than by self-promotion.
Every now and then I give up the fight, out of sheer exhaustion, but so far I have lived to fight another day. I guess I've had one of those overwhelming setbacks lately. Really overwhelming. I've been in much worse places than this, though. I have hope now because I know that some good things lie ahead, though they are laced with the constant pain of knowing what I've lost. That may always haunt me, and I'll never be as happy or optimistic as I once was. Ever. I know too much now. Shattered innocence, obliterated faith.
Sometimes I'm just holding on by a string, which is better than not holding on at all. I remember the road trip I took with my Pomona friends sophomore year, and how I was afraid to get to close to the edge of a cliff at Zion National park for fear I'd throw myself off. As battered as I was for as long as I was, I always knew that life could be good, and it was worth waiting around to see if that would happen again, or some remnant thereof. It's only after most of the suffering has ceased that I'm able to acknowledge just how bad it was.
And I know that the key to healing, if such a thing is possible, is telling my story in my own words. That is my only option. I have infinitely fewer options than I used to have (don't bother me about the misuse of "infinite," since it's not quantifiable; I already know that).
It's 9:25pm and I still need to review my presentation for tomorrow and work more on my paper. I absolutely despise turning things in late, even though teachers are understanding of my situation. X turned me into someone I hated, someone who sickened me. I abandoned myself, like a rat leaving a sinking ship. No, my grammar is not perfect; yet. Language is always changing, though, so I guess grammar can't ever really be perfect.
Language is the paintbrush with which we illustrate the human experience, in my opinion. As a kid I realized I had something to say, and that writing seemed to be the appropriate medium. Not sure why. I guess it's easier not to "perform" when it's just me and my written reflection; not much of an audience, which always taints me somehow. Being alone has been really hard all these years; my inner life up and left and I don't know how to reclaim it.
I fight and fight and fight to reclaim lost ground; I strive to reach that place in which I was when I was 5; I'll probably never get there. I've been out of touch with just how hard I've been striving/struggling, and how tired I am of it.
No one knows the troubles I know. No one is going to tell me to move on, not to feel sorry for myself, etc. I am the expert at my own healing. Self-pity and rage are some of the many emotions I have to go through to get where I insist upon going.
I can't describe how lonely it's been, how alone I still am. It's like I'm reporting from some distant planet no one's ever heard of; they're all smiling and nodding their heads but they have no idea. I hold I secret I do not wish to have; I did not ask for. I don't want it, but don't know how to give it away. This isn't my fault. I did not seek this out. It does not belong to me.
Comments
I don't have x, but I do know what it is like to feel infinetly alone, victimized and lost. I'm glad that you're writing and I trust that you will continue to do it as it seems to be a particularly cathartic and healing form of expression. I'm also pleased that you have a blog because I like to read about what is going on with you. Although my forms of neuroses take on a different shape, I identify with a number of your thoughts and feelings. Keep writing.
Eden