June 27th, 2004
Impossible to escape
I am in more of a need to vent now than I can ever remember having to. I’ve had alot of trouble acknowledging that… and even more trouble actually making myself sit down and write it out. While I have been mulling over my current issues, I try to plan my sentences out as eloquently as possible in my head, trying to find the best way to communicate my feelings in a way that is as shattering as they actually are to the one who’s speaking… and I become frustrated when everything so obviously boils down to “like, this situation sucks, pity me.” I’m not a child anymore, but I fear my limited exposure to the outside world for the past two years has left me disproportionately immature for far longer than someone my age should have. I want to show some adult control over myself… I want to accept responsibility for my actions, and even moreso the responsibility of my lack of action.
It is hard to articulate the truth about an ongoing lie. It’s hard for me to stop the propaganda, even for a moment, and say the things that are on the tip of my tongue. It makes me wonder if I am even capable of being honest about what goes on in my head… as if my fingers would continue to produce the regular rubbish, despite the thoughts swarming in my head, fighting to get out.
This is me trying to describe how hard this is, and I’m struggling even with that. It has nothing to do with this journal being public or private, and has everything to do with me not even wanting to acknowledge my issues to myself. Acknowledgement is reality, and realities are… impossible to escape. I worry that so much of what I have worked for will fall apart… but what those obviously fragile accomplishments are, I do not know… yet I still fear for them. I worry that people will look at me differently, or even worse, improperly. I worry that if I come to acceptance that I will no longer be able to hold myself up, no longer be able to be even a version of strong, which has been a necessity for the person I have become. I don’t want to be one whose hurting, and I don’t want to be the one who people are glad they are not. I got my fill of that sort of pity from when I was an egotistical hypochondriac in my mid teens. If I could, I would just conjure up bigger bottles made of denial and store any overflow there to deal with when I’m 40 and barren. I would give anything if I could just shut my eyes and it would all float away. But I’ve been crying… for no reason. Sometimes I feel as though I may panic, but I still retain enough sanity to not torture myself with further thoughts of the future… until I realize, yet again, that the future is sprinting toward me at horrible speed. I feel like I want to cross my legs and never open them again… or maybe grow a penis, so I can spend my time packing and pushing emotional issues into someone else instead of feeling overstuffed from my own. I find myself thinking about death too much, and all the wonderful thoughts that go along with it. I’m beginning to become afraid. And as part of my twisted grieving process, I feel I need to expose these tender parts, probably in further detail at a later time, in the hopes of seeking some sort of healing in the face of compassion and understanding from others.
But… I don’t want to hear anything. I don’t want someone telling me that my thoughts are wrong, however realistically wrong they may be. I don’t want someone telling me how they’ve been where I am, and how there’s a light at the end of every tunnel. Nor do I need suggestions, nor do I need false hope. I don’t need any of that. I don’t know what I need… I just know I don’t.
I am near exhaustion from having been so emotionally blocked for the past two years. This is my first step to unraveling it… and while I’m done typing for now, I need to post this before I simply save it as a .txt file and forget that I ever tried to make myself better.