I’m writing tonight because there’s no room to feel. I don’t care for company right now but my brother’s in my room anyway. It’s how we spend most breaks or whenever we’re both home at the same time–in my room, reading, listening to music, online, cracking jokes, being us. And usually I love it, But tonight, I don’t have the energy or the room for him. Or myself. I feel like I’ve been evicted from my own body, my own head-space. There is no place that is safe. There never has been. There never will be. Everything is dangerous, and you just have to take the wounds, the hurt, the scars, the everything, and realize you’re gonna be fucked as hell when it’s all said and done. Because that’s what this life is.
My parents are moving. Hurray? I honestly don’t really care that much. I haven’t really lived here for the past two years, I just come home on breaks. They’re not putting the hose on the market until after my brother and I go back to school anyway, so it doesn’t much affect me. (If only it were hat simple.) Actually, it does affect me. A lot. My dad has to spend about half his time in another state for the rest of summer break. My mom wants to go along, so they can house hunt when he’s off from work and over the weekend. Yipee.
Personally, I spend my days cooking, cleaning, and volunteering at a food pantry. I write and read to my heart’s content. At least, that’s what I like to tell people who ask what I’m up to. It’s the lie I like to tell myself. And sure, it’s mostly true. But I’m also trying to keep a tight grip on the little bit of space and peace I have left. See, tonight? Tonight, I feel them. They occupy too much room, their parasitic stress is taxing. I don’t have room to breathe, to enjoy the things I love, because I’m choking on everything they want to get done, on their pretensions and perfections and I just want to escape. (But that’s not possible–never has been and never will be)
So instead, I just fool everyone else into thinking I’m fine. There’s no space, no room, no right, no fucking reason for me to ever think they give a shit about me. As long as I’m staying out of their way, taking all their stress and frustration and bundling it neatly into a few more scars or a few swallowed pills then it doesn’t matter. The price of gas is too high, so I’d much rather settle for a knife than a drive. I don’t care if it hurts them to see it, but this is what it takes for me to be whatever the fuck they want me to be. Not like they notice or care or listen or give a flying shit either way. I am nothing to them. I am nothing to many people, and only someone to ridicule to the rest of the world.
And people like to say that I’m smart and beautiful and I like not to believe them. Because they don;t know me. They don’t take the time to listen to my, hear my words when they come, read the ones that I write. They know my last name, my parents, the fucking facade that I’ve been forced into my entire life. They don’t know who I am. And if you’re going to say I’m being dramatic, if you’re going to try to fix this worthless, wretched mess that I happen to be, don’t bother. You don’t know me. You don’t know how much the pain helps, you don’t know how much the silence and the smiles cover my tracks. If you’re going to apologize, save your fucking breath. I’m not sorry, so why should you be?
I’ll be fine in the morning. And maybe it’s that surety, that promise, that keeps people apathetic concerning whatever situation I happen to be in. Maybe it’s that reliability that gives me excuse to be this bold, this brash, this defiant. Or maybe it’s just because I’m hurting. Maybe it’s because I’m trying to tell you something but I know you won’t listen anyway, so I just say whatever the hell I can think of to put enough fear into your bones. And maybe one day I’ll scare myself. But who the fuck cares. The reliability is there, you know I’ll be okay, so don’t fret. Even if I’m not, there’s nothing worth saving, nothing worth crying over. Don’t mourn for those who wish to die–at least theirs is one guaranteed to be granted.