Category Archives: self

We all get touched here

I remember when

A day long ago, yet not so far

I looked at her and said “what’s the big deal, what’s she crying about”

Because we all get touched

Why does she get to cry

And get your pity and empathy

When I said it, no one believed me

Or maybe they just didn’t care

So of course I didn’t support her

I mocked her

“Get over it” I thought

We all get touched here

Unwilling and unwanting

They get what they want

So stop crying

“It’s not a big deal”

Because if you hurt, I might need to hurt too

If you cry, I might need to cry too

See, it’s not that I didn’t believe you

Or that I thought you shouldn’t hurt

It’s that it hurts to bad to recognize what happens

To recognize how it feels

It’s easier to be cold

And numb

And “get over it”

Although we never will

#metoo

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Meaningless

It doesn’t matter
Doesn’t matter
Isn’t that what you told me
So why are you angry
Your the one that told me
So what if I’m in love
Isn’t it all meaningless
Tell me what want
Maybe we can make it right
Weren’t you the one that told me
It doesn’t matter
Doesn’t matter
Everything you say tonight is a contradiction
So just tell me what you want
Maybe we can make it right
Cuz all I want to feel
Is in love tonight
It doesn’t matter
Doesn’t matter

Just out of grasp

The year started with utter chaos. I had found myself after such long expanded attempts and have lost myself in an instant. How impeccably ironic. How insanely sane it is to be capable of losing your lives progress within a moment. And in what moment has it been lost? I cannot say. I view myself as unbreakable, yet break unknowingly rather quickly, I find when reflected on. Merely moments of weakness or truly breaching my limits? The fact that I am so incapable of answering these questions leads me to believe I have in fact lost myself. We all have an ideal self. But is this ideal who we truly think we are or just a socially portrayed idea of unobtainable perfection? I have the sense that I am a particular person and I cannot be happy unless I align my life with this mentally created happy version of myself. Is this not insanity? Is this not brilliance? I have an idea of exactly how to be happy and yet I refuse to let myself live this internal self. Is this due to external pressures insisting me to be someone else? Or possibly past habits that challenge my attempts to change? Honestly, deeply, is this what we are supposed to feel? I can see my soul, yet it’s just out of grasp.

I will be okay. Whatever that means.

Here I am. I am 20 years and a recovering alcoholic. I am my father. I’ve heard it from my mother’s mouth. I’m cruel just the way he is. Ironic, he said I am my mother. They hate each other. They hate me. Everywhere I go things fall apart. Things go bad. I don’t even know how to feel anymore. Literally, if something is supposed to be really sad and painful or if I am supposed to heal it and recover, it doesn’t happen. I don’t know how. You say I’m playing victim, that I have tunnel vision and don’t see who I am. You say I think I’m perfect. You’re so wrong. I am so deeply broken that I can’t even piece together the words I want to say to you. The moment I feel hurt, my voice fades away. My thoughts fade away. I don’t know how to fix anything. We are a product of our environment, right? Well, my family never acknowledged the disgusting truth of our lives. I don’t know how to feel. That’s what an alcoholic is. Numb. Not in touch with reality. I don’t even know what reality is, how can I share one with you. You think you understand. I don’t even understand, so how could you. You hate me for something I couldn’t control. The control my past has over me. How could I see I’m hurting you when I don’t know what hurts you. We just aren’t the same. I don’t know how to explain myself. I can say the words, write the words, but as soon as I’m put down, as soon as I’m dismissed, the way I’ve felt, the words I wanted to say, they all disappear. In my past, it was easier to not try to explain how I feel. It was easier to just not feel at all. My family is sick. I’m sick. Sick in the way that all we know how to do is hurt. We don’t know how to be ok. We are all the victims. We are all the destructive. I thought I was better. I was just in denial. You can’t be better. You can’t pretend to be someone else and pretend your ugly past, which formed the person you are just doesn’t exist. Right? Is that why my dad always left? He thought if we just moved to a new place that he could just be someone else. Someone else who wasn’t horrible. Who didn’t drink until he couldn’t see. Who didn’t beat his wife and kids. Who didn’t hate every bit of himself. Who didn’t know no one could ever love him because he would never let them. I’m him. I run away. I’m a coward. I love to travel because no one knows the fuck up I am. I love to move because if they don’t know my name they can’t talk badly about me. I try to cling to everyone then push them away. Why? I want to be loved, but I don’t know how to let someone love me. I don’t even know how to love correctly myself. Love for me was hate. They were the same thing in my life. Self-hatred and hatred toward the person that you want to understand, but never could. How could anyone. Poor me, right? My life is so sad, right? I disgust myself when I feel bad for myself. Don’t get me wrong. I am the most grateful person I can be for my life right now because I know exactly what it can be. I lost a friend. I almost cut again. I lost hold of everything I had gained. Self-control, happiness, feeling. I held it to my skin, pressed it on my skin. I almost relapsed, just the way I do with drinking all the time, but here I am. I’m not dead. I’m alone. The only way I know how to be. And it’s okay. In denial or not, insane or not, all I can do is keep living. There’s no way out. I won’t let myself find a way out. If it’s insanity to be happy when everything is wrong, to pretend your past doesn’t exist, to pretend you don’t ruin everything you care about, to pretend your travels are simply to become more educated than so be it. I choose insanity over numbness, over sadness. Maybe this is numbness. I’m really not sure. All I know is I will be okay. Whatever that means.