I’m a whole mess of things right now. I angry. I’m scared. I’m sad. Guilty. Ashamed. Defeated. Weak. Invisible. There’s so much I feel right now and no way to get it out, no way to get it all out. I said I was going to listen to music. I said I was going to write. So I’m sitting here trying to make good on the promise, the lie, that I’m all right or will be soon. I’m sitting here hacking away at the keyboard instead of carving my own skin, silently singing my hopelessness instead of flushing my frustrations down my throat. Pills, pills, gulp of water, another cut.
The things I would do if I could, if I didn’t have anything to fight for or hold onto. I’ve been there before. I know what the hopelessness feels like, the darkness, the suffocating self-loathing that swallows you whole until staying alive is more of a punishment than dying. I’ve made myself a martyr for others, borne their crosses and mine, taken their sin and held everything inside because I deserved it. Because I didn’t matter. Because I didn’t want them to feel my pain, or their own, or anyone’s. I would be the worthless wretch they could take out their anger and fear on. I was expendable, disposable, an emotional trash can to be dumped into and put out on the street. I could take it. I could let them empty me out and I would take it all again and I wouldn’t say a word. Because who really cared what I felt, anyway?
I never make any promises on here except for honesty. Honesty. Something I’ve spent my whole life avoiding for fear of being an inconvenience to others. Fuck it. I still believe the lies. I don’t tell the truth because I’m scared. I don’t want to intrude on your life. I don’t want you worrying about me and pitying me, checking up to see if I’m all right. Because I’m not. I never have been and never will be–at least, not until I die. Am I getting better? Sure, whatever. Soon enough. And maybe tomorrow I won’t be this angry. Maybe tomorrow I won’t want to cut deep, to bleed out this pain and stress, to swallow enough pills to numb out everything else. Maybe tomorrow I won’t feel like an invisible piece of shit with no voice. Hell, I might as well be anyway. I’m black and I hide away in my room. How much of this is my fault? All of it. None of it.
I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of being made to fight, made to be mature, made to know how to be okay all the time. Cause damn it I’m NOT okay. I’m sick. I’m scared. I’m damaged and I’m just so fucking tired. I need someone else to fight for me because I can’t. I need my parents to put forth the effort, to care the fuck enough to help me get better instead of leaving it up to me to fix things. How can they not see that it never works? I was never supposed to be mature enough to take responsibility for them and my brother and me.
I’m not that little princess they want me to be. That girl died when I was five and learned things I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to know. Whoever I’ve been since then, she plays a good game but she’s probably the worst nightmare they could have imagined for a child. I’m not sure if I’m sorry about it. I’m not sure if I care anymore. I’ll just cover up my fault lines with their favorite lies and let them believe it. They will only always see what they want, and I’m not going to waste the rest of my life trying to prove that I’m worth their love. They’ll never know how to show it, anyway.
Accepting The Distance,