Today I woke up sad. Sad that I didn't believe in God, and yet I prayed for a miracle. I prayed that I would just sleep forever. Waking up is so hard. Too hard. The loneliness has crept in so deep that it's choking my very soul. Crying has become my new normal. Stuck in this perpetual moment of heartbreak and even after the rain has cleared, I sit with no rainbows. No sunshine. No butterflies or even puppy dogs. I cry until my eyes hurt and my chest feels like it will explode. I YouTube videos on self-affirming yourself out of a panic attack. I lie, out loud, because it feels more true when my ears can hear it.
Everything is OK. Everything is not OK. You will get through this. You're caving into your own self deprecating mountains of failure. Why me? Why was I born? Why am I still here? Why won't you take me! I hate God. I hate that I'm this walking oxymoron that can't do anything right. I don't want to live but I can't kill myself, so I try to take deep breaths until my chest aches a little less, and then I pray. Mortals. We don't believe in magic, but we hope our spells will work anyway. Is that why I'm still alive? I don't believe in god, but I wish he'd step up anyway. I find myself lingering at work. Things I could do tomorrow, I do them now. I've always been a procrastinator and suddenly, I'm Johnny on the spot. Anything to keep me from going home. I'll work for free, but please don't make me go home. Please. Silence. No one can hear my prayers. No one cares. Maybe this oxymoron is tired. Maybe it's time. You cut vertical. It only hurts for a moment, and then you never have to hurt again. What lesson am I learning? Isn't 30 years enough? Is it all in my head? Am I really sick and just unmedicated or am I lazy, inconsiderate, good for nothing... I'm six years old again. Sitting in a box. It's black. Pitch black. I'm locked inside. I was bad again. I don't understand. I never understand. Other children don't feel this. I think we'd all have said something by now. It's just me. The odd one out. No one likes me. No one wants me around. I'm six and my mother says to me how she has to love me but that doesn't mean she likes me.
Bad girls look down. I watch my feet as the years go by. I'm 15. My mom asks why do I look at my feet all the time? I respond, bad girls look down. I'm 25 and I realize, I'm still watching my feet. People I know pass me. I have no idea. It's me and my feet. That's all I can see. I'm now 30, writing this and thinking about those god damn feet. I'm so broken. Unmarried and let's face it, not in any relationship longer than a few months. Or even what anyone would have ever considered healthy. Friends. What are those? I abandoned my cat. Now I live off my mother and her husband. Lucky I'm not holding a sign on a street corner but praying every night that I have a heart attack or just stop breathing. Fragile humans, and it feels like I'm immortal. What is this?! The tears have stopped. I feel less suicidal but just as lonely. I have no one. My mom isn't talking to me. Patrick isn't talking to me. I broke their TV because that's the type of person I am. Bad girls look down. Fuck. How much more can someone cry? I feel so weak and stupid and everything else I know I'm not supposed to feel. It hurts. Everything. From my toes to the top of my head. When will it end? How much longer until my karma sentence is up? Bad girls look down. Everything is not OK.
About the Creator
I Will Not Be a Square
I went to bed last night with a question burning on my mind. I woke feeling like I just sat through the second viewing of a movie hoping the outcome would be different. The outcome is always the same; never changing because it cannot change. I am not in a movie; I change. I can be more than the words that I type or whisper. I can be more than the lies I recite hoping no one can see through the ruse. I am a good person… I am a good person… I thought I was a good person. I need to know if I can be the kind of good person I want to be. Standards so high, the intention is really to fail. Did you know that about me? My question was, am I living a stereotype in denial? I knew the answer before I knew the question. Sometimes the question is the answer. This question was my answer. Knowing doesn’t feel good, though. It is good to know the truth. The truth can set you free. They say that this is half the battle. I have always been half way done then. It feels more like I haven’t taken one step forward in a while. In fact, it feels more like I am walking in the prints I already left. My foot doesn’t fit… I am making the prints bigger, wider, and fatter. Buddha says you are what you say you are. Not literal in the way that I can say, I am a bird. (Literal in more of how words have power.) If you say you will fail before you start, you have already failed. This is why I have so many words. I want to succeed before I start. You can talk so much that walking becomes impossible; a task that you put on a pedestal too high to reach. I talked up a good story with no intention of living it out… If I stop talking, will I live my dreams instead?
By Fuck Off6 years ago in Motivation
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