It’s unescapable, for the most part, and I’m left wondering. I had once thought you knew how I felt, but you made someone else your world, didn’t you, only to watch as they crushed you all over again. I’m left to wonder if you ever really learned your lesson the first time around. You said your family ruined you as they did me. So then, why make someone your entire world? Your only reason for being? Your… “entire reason for existance”? I wonder if you ever felt the hurt like I have, but you said it yourself, the same words I had said. You vowed like I vowed. Never. Again. Nobody would ever make me feel that way, ever again.
The pain, blinding, only to later flicker and fade into a crippling feeling. Agony tears down my well placed walls, and I crumble, I succumb. Misery grasps me like a demon, and drags me right back into the dark depths as I scream and scream until my throat is raw. Until there’s nothing wet left inside of me and its only cracked pained sobs. Sobs that I’m hardly aware of.
Sometimes you can cry until there is nothing wet in you. You can scream and curse to where your throat rebels and ruptures. You can pray, all you want, to whatever God you think will listen. And still it makes no difference. It goes on, with no sign as to when it might release you. And you know that if it ever did relent… it would not be because it cared.
There’s the dull realization that I may just be utterly alone in this. I want someone to tell me they felt the same and really mean it, to know that you can’t just talk about it, because talking isn’t going to change anything. It isn’t going to change years of hurt and anger. Sometimes I doubt anyone has ever been heartbroken before. If they really were, then they’d know. So your boyfriend, your girlfriend, they leave you.
I’ve been there.
That pain will never come anywhere near the agony I’ve felt.
Can anyone really tell me they know how it feels to be really unwanted? By. Their. Own. Parents.
Does anyone else know what it’s like to spend the first eight or nine years of their lives handed off to different babysitters? Babysitters who had their own familys, children that they loved. Everytime, every new house, every new rules, everything always changing–nothing was ever the same, each babysitter vastly different from the first.
I hated them.
I was the good silent child. I was silent because I was angry, and I hated them. I dreamed of their deaths, how I’d do it. I would watch, I would learn. Nothing ever appeared to bother me, because I was a sweet darling.
Preschool is when the voice came. The sarcastic voice who was my only constant in my life, who warned me of things–who showed me things that would make sense in my little tiny mind. From there, I learned how to get people to do what I wanted, to say things I wanted them to say. I watched as I set everything up and it would unfold like a story.
Sometimes I could say the words in my head, and moments later someone else would say them. I could tell when people would trip moments before they did.
From preschool, the friends would line up, would whisper in my ear, would sit around me. The boys always wanted to be my “husband” or my “boyfriend”.
But all that mattered was the voice.
There was always that indifference. Even as a small child, I felt no attachments to toys, to blankets. At times I would have favorites, but it was a moment thing. Something brief. As I got a little older, I would bring twenty or so more with me in car rides, and make it so they could watch out the window with me.
I wanted someone to see the world the way I did. The beauty.
Nature became my only friend, regardless of the other kids who always played with me and called. Nature knew me best, and I would seek advice. The trees, I believed, would tell me what I should do.
I can still remember sitting in that car, up front because my mom didn’t care that I wasn’t suppose to be up front until I was 13 and I was only four or five–the mirror said so. She was stopped at a red light and I remember being so excited. Not only was I with her, but I actually saw her, and it was daytime and she was taking me out.
Now, I figure, its why I crave going out, just to be in the car.
Anyway, I had been so excited, and I wanted to remind her how much I loved her, in case she had forgotten–I had wanted to make sure she still loved me too. I’d ask, “Do you still love me?” and as a child, I must have asked a few times. I just wanted to hear it. But she became annoyed.
“Sarah, if you act this way with your boyfriend, he’ll leave you.”
I remember the huff, and the dismissive way she said it. I fell into silence. If, I thought back then, if that’s the way it is to have a boyfriend, then I want nothing to do with it. To be left just because I wanted to be loved? Her words kept me from getting romantic for a long time, kept me from even wanting it.
I remember when I was caught crying–how my mom would drag me into the bathroom and make me stare at myself, how she’d tell me how I was making a fool out of myself.
When Laura came I would be punished for crying, grounded.
I learned to cry in silence, to make sure to check myself in the mirror before leaving the bathroom, to practice smiling.
I tried everything to get attention. I taught myself how to fall without hurting myself. I’d wait until we were in public so I could run away and hide. I even did dangerous things. Nothing I did was ever good enough, nobody I ever was mattered.
On vacations, when I was younger, she brought babysitters.
When I was older then five, I was on my own. I explored the strange world.
My parents have forgotten me at stores.
I was always the last kid to be picked up from school, from camp.
The voice had taken up different names over the years, but he was always the same person. His personality never changed.
For the longest time, I wasn’t really in reality.
Still now, I don’t even fully know what’s real.
I had seen things. I had heard things. I had met people who.. may or may not have been all that human.
Horrible green dead people. Creatures. And a boy, who I now know as Nathan, have always been.
I never would say, but Nathan had been around since I was little too. Forever fifteen, forever stuck. I had forgotten him for a while until he came back one day.
He use to help me escape the nightmares, I remember. When things got violent in my dreams, he’d come for me, but he was always angry about it, always cold.
Sometimes I remember him with red eyes.
Sometimes I remember him with a hood over his face.
Sometimes I’m not sure if its even the same person from my dreams. Sometimes I’m not even sure if I ever met Nathan.
I was raised in a bad way.
Mom tried to get me to believe I couldn’t trust anyone. That everyone would always be against me.
I was raised with the understanding to befriend people, because “you never knew what they’d grow up to be, and they could BE someone.”
I was raised to, while befriending everyone, to never actually never be friends with someone who were “below” me.
I wasn’t allowed to hang out with poor people.
Sometimes they’d let me, but they’d trash talk the family and my friend.
Apperances=Everything.
Fake it until you made it.
And now, the coldness drifts over me. The chilled anger.
It’s… strange. It’s as though I had forgotten my own hurt, and all I can do is wait for it to lessen.
As for right now, I’m destroyed, emotion-wise. Right now I need to heal. I hadn’t need to do this in a while, not since 9th grade. But the time has come again, when they completely, and utterly, broke me. I had healed, I had patched up the little holes, I had fixed myself.
And now its all undone. I’m scrambling for my comforts, for my safe place. In and out of what I’m not sure is what I’m suppose to be in. But now I feel more alone. I don’t have what I had–its all on me now. Nowhere to hide. Nothing to sink into.
So, no.
I’m not alright. I’m far from alright.
And no, I’m not going to be okay for a while. I’m fucking hurt.
I wonder if nobody grasps the concept. I’m sure it doesn’t really matter.
It’s not tragic unless it happens to you.
And right now, I can’t feel anything for anyone. You’re upset? Good. Fuck you.
