Pause, hit play.

And then, I’m utterly drawn, and wondering how I could possibly, possibly, write such a thing about him. I had the perfect excuse, too. Laura being horribly sick enough to be taken to the emergency room–I play the sad voice on the phone. Sick, isn’t it, that Laura’s illness is a mere pawn for me to use and get out of things, and the fact she’ll need surgery. I’m indifferent to the point that she is unwell.

Come over.

I shouldn’t have even picked up the phone, what was I thinking?

I’ll comfort you.

And the words I had written the night before fade, and I’m his again. So I allow him to pick me up.

I never wanted to sleep over. I never, ever, wanted too. I didn’t, didn’t, didn’t.

I say, ‘Laura’s ill, surgery… I should be home for her.’

Tell your mom no.

Okay, I don’t want to go home anymore. And I call.

I never drink tea. I hate it.

So he made me some and I drank it and lied and said it was good.

I don’t like running around.

So I played Valley Ball and that game with the little birdie.

And out came the girl that follows Dennis around blindly, laughing endlessly all day long, selling out everyone, save for Venny, Snarf, Billy and Molly.

And I couldn’t remember why he was a bad person. The jokes, the teases, the obvious cruelty a mere thing to giggle over.

I haven’t escaped.

Elevator music.

Laura is right. I am afraid.
I’m a coward.
I’m afraid of what he’ll do if I try and leave.

Am I allowed to call it Stockholm Syndrome?;

Stockholm syndrome is a psychological response sometimes seen in an abducted hostage, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the danger (or at least risk) in which they have been placed. Loyalty to a more powerful abuser.

I might not be a hostage, but mentally, for four years, I felt like one. I wasted four years of my life, from 7th grade until 11th, succumbing to his every whim. My excuse–”He makes me laugh”.
I owed him.
He made me better. Taught me not to be a cry baby.

Because that’s what he’d tell me when he made me cry. That I was a pathetic cry baby. If I tried to step away, they’d crack horrible jokes. Pull horrible pranks. Go through my locker and destroy my notebooks, call me a bitch for not including them in the stories, rip them up in front of me and laugh. Laugh. For two years I wished I could kill the both of them.

I hated them. And I was always, always the bad person. I was always wrong. I was always stupid. For two long years, I was scum. Brandon didn’t understand why I couldn’t talk to him.

He didn’t understand that Dennis didn’t like him, which meant I’d get in horrible trouble if we talked. I tried telling him,

“Look, I’m… I’m in a good place now. They include me in the jokes, you don’t understand.”

Because I learned laughter was the only way. The only way to escape.  I was shit, and I had to laugh at myself. So I did. I let them rip my clothing–and I’d cover for them. I fell, I’d say.

Then, suddenly, I didn’t want to escape. I learned that I was shit to everyone, nobody cared when I was shoved to the ground and mocked, that teachers turned their heads and looked the other way when they were cruel. After a while, friends stopped trying to help me. They only could give me words, and words couldn’t help me. Nobody could save me.

Dennis was my only salvation. I was terrified of being caught out with other friends. I’d struggle to make excuses when he found out, cried and begged him to forgive me, made up lies and made it my friends fault so he’d allow me in his good graces again.

If he didn’t talk to me, I’d become suicidal.

Suicidal. Killing myself seemed the only option. And nobody but Dennis knew. He’d laugh. He’d mock.

I’d betray everyone for him. I’d spill all their secrets to him just so he could laugh. I hurt people. I did horrible things and pretended to be someone he wanted to be so I’d escape it all. His wrath.

If he called, I’d answer and spend hours on the phone until he decided he didn’t want to talk anymore. Two years of hating him, two years of believing he was everything.

I always knew… when people on TV would ask the abused wife, ‘why don’t you leave?’ I knew. Because you can’t. You’ll always think it’s getting better, you’ll want to stick around for the laughs.

He told me nobody would love me like he did. I’d always be alone, and he’d always be the only one who gave a shit, that in the end, he’d be the only one around.

Funny.

I went from being abandoned to being in an abusive friendship, and all the while I was absolutely crazy. Genetics. People. I don’t think, despite all I say, that I’ll ever believe I’m worth something that Molly tells me I am. I’ll never be able to believe the pretty words she tells me. Because of Dennis. Because of Mom.

I just wanted to be taken care of. And that’s why I want TB so badly.

I wish I knew how to ask for help, but all I have are my words, and I know I’ll devour myself in them. I know I’ll end up… like that.

Why doesn’t anyone realize I’m really, really, hurting inside?

And then I remember… because all I have is my lies and my laugh. That I’ve made so many facades. Nobody can ever know.

I spent so many years wishing I could escape, when I was younger it was because my mother was never around. Then it was because of Dennis. I’d dream that I’d land somewhere else, and I could finally cry because he couldn’t get me anymore. That I’d be safe.

I’ve spent my entire life wishing I was someone else. Somewhere else. In a world that only exists in my head.

Things can only get better, and I intend on fixing myself fully. Until then, I’ll continue to play the part of the happy teenage girl, and when I falter, I can always blame PMS.

And nobody will ever know. Because I know how to be happy.

Being sad is cliched anyway.

Scratch that.

You hate everything that has to do with real life, don’t you?

The question was, by all means, innocent by nature. How could she know? But the realization struck me.

Yes.

It’s a fine line between pleasure and pain.

Break my body, with the back of your hand.

What happens when it all goes awry, you ask. Thus lies the true nature of the hideous roleplay, huh? Starting something with the intention of keeping your own feelings out of the loop. Shamelessly slapping around the word love from comment to comment, to person to person. A tricky game, almost like the one you can play, but less so. See, the differences are, everyone goes in knowing its a game, a lie, a thing of pretend, knowingly. Everyone pretending to be something or someone they are not.

And the fools end up believing their own lies. End up loving someone who doesn’t exist. At least everyone has been burned once, fallen in love with something that had never existed.

I realized the game of roleplay was much like the way the high school popularity structures are built upon. The drama is certainly the same, I can tell you that. So instead of the football jock growling and saying, ‘You’re dating that hockey player?’ to the pretty cheerleader…

The lion says, ‘You chosen that wolf to be your mate?’.

And in roleplay flying is possible.

But everything is based on rumor, on lies, on cheating, on she said he said nonsense, and if you haven’t logged in for two days–well, obviously, you’ve been gone forever, and your lover probably found someone else to comfort them from the horrible lack of love.

However, I do realize that if there ever was a hell, I’d have a first class ticket for the lies that spew from my god awful mouth. Don’t worry, though, we’ll hang out, ’cause, obviously you’re sinning too. Pfft. I think everyone who matters will be down there. Venny, and obviously Billy. God does hate those gays! So we’ll find a mall for all of us to hang out in. And my face will always be beat red, cause I hate the heat.

And yes.

I’m stalling. These ramblings, my trying to justify the damage I’ve done. Maybe it’s why I avoid dating people for the real. I know I’d be a psycho ex girlfriend. I’m complicated. Not in the way you are, but in the crazy kind of way.

I’ll make it simple. I lie. I pretend. For them, I pretend. And then I run away, because I can’t stand the pressure. It’s too much for me to keep up. It’d be one thing if it was simple roleplay, but I have an awful feeling that they slipped through and started to care.

I hate those words Snarf.

I hate those words, and I hear them so much.

You saved me.

I can’t save people. I know because nobody bothered to save me. Not one person tried back then, when I was killing myself as I walked around. People used to be cruel when I remembered they could hurt me, and hurt me they did. Face down in the dirt, struggle to get up as the oh so funny duo laughed mockingly, pressing their foot down on my back. And not one single person cared.

Yet I hear it so many times. How I’m the light, how I help people, how I saved them.

They’re fooling themselves. Because the only person that can ever save you, is yourself.

The zombies are marching…

I’m sorry.

Truly I’ve said such a thing many times, drummed my fingers across the sleek black keys, and uttered sweet endearing phrases of romantic sonnets, all for the sake of having you calm down after I ripped you apart easily, made you shed tears across your pretty little pale unloved face. Daddy doesn’t love you and your mommy forgot you, but a stranger posing as someone who could love you soothes you with sweet tender sentences, sputtered across your page like a lullaby you always prayed to hear.

What good is my apology…? I feel nothing for what I do except for the occasional aggravation toward the same sentences of deep longing and teenage agony that sputter from their end, and the sickness I gain when drama kicks up all from a loose tongue. Sickness and anxiety.

I find myself indulging in what I do, absolutely fascinated with the mere thought of molding and creating, unsurprised when they reply with what I thought they would. Ryan I remember when you told me you weren’t a character in my story book. And I smiled to myself, because that’s the response I was counting on.

Every word, every action, everything planned out hours or days ahead of time, and I smile as it all falls in place. My tendency to forget that they have feelings and that they are real makes me cruel, though who is to be blamed? When we play in a reality which starts as fictional, can you really take it to heart?

So, La, La, La, La, La, La, La

Moments before I have to leave, again, I find myself yet again puzzled by the romances of life. Putting it lightly, yeah, I’m confused as hell. Am I so broken that nobody left has the ability to make me hurt the way Snarf does? Or is it that I’m now too cruel and empathetic to allow anyone to? I had sworn when I was young, clinging to the towel holder, my body wrecked with sobs, that I’d never let anyone hurt me ever again, let alone a boy.

But what about a girl?

The thing is I’d do anything, perhaps even murder, to maintain my level of happiness. I’ll cheat, I’ll lie, I’ll take any easy way to make sure I’m surrounded by joy, because I know I’m weak and will shatter–only to, of course, blind myself into believing that I’m, once again, overly happy. Lydia you filthy bitch, you were right. I am the mindless one.

It’s perplexing. Aren’t we suppose to be children? Then why is it, then, that we’re thrown into situations in which adults are suppose to be in? And then they wonder why children get knocked up. Make up your minds, what are we? Laura thinks I’ll be a wet noodle, back boneless.

But I’ve been through psychological shit. I’ve seen my friends through worse. Don’t think so, Laura, don’t think so.

I don’t know why Snarf has to suffer. Bound by something she practically can’t control. What good is no to a nymph? Love is such a tricky thing, and it’ll make us all mad. My mother made me loose my sanity. Beautiful Kelsea, will FAJ make you loose yours? We’re still young, don’t break apart for a guy now, your life still offers so much.
And yet…

I don’t want you to say goodbye to him. I think he’d be good for you, despite everything that’s going on now, I think he’d love you like nobody else would. I pretended to hate Kami. Why? Because I knew he wasn’t the one for you. I always knew it was FAJ, from the start of the year when you told me about the game you played, how you wanted to scoop him up, and see if you could get him. There was that spark.

I like FAJ and you. And I wish it could be a forever sort of thing.

Corn is now hilariosusdfasd.

So Snarf wrote an entry about FAJ visiting her for her birthday. It made me happy, cause it’ll eventually happen, and then she won’t have to be sad anymore.

D:

I am filled with an understanding that I have nobody to turn to. There is nothing left to say. I cannot reach out for help because there is nobody who can help me. Petty words for unwanted tears. And I can’t help but wonder if I’m in a breakdown.

How can I become so believing of whispers that have no bodies? My refusal to call them voices strings back to the belief that Mark is fucking liar, and my desperate denial that I am okay. On the subject of Nathan–’You’re just kidding, right?’ Of course Mom. I’m kidding, don’t worry, I promise it’s just a teasing joke.

As far back as I can remember I’ve sought to be anything but normal. Like them. Like them. Now I struggle to appear normal. Not like them normal, but weirdishly normal, like how they other kids do it.

I want to make it clear that I have no desire to talk about it, simply that this is what’s going on, and I can’t get myself help, because when it comes to reality, or whatever it is I believe, I simply do not want any.

Words can not soothe me. Maybe because I don’t want them to soothe me. Or maybe because I’d rather suffer then become something cliched, something that needs a reassurance from a mere stranger over myspace, or the empty helpful words from a friend. How can someone help me, when they’re neck deep in their own shit?

o_e

I’m filled with an unreasonable desire to run away.

Flibbertigibbet.

Snarf mentioned that I haven’t ‘written in your blog in a while’, so here I am. She doesn’t know I have a few others I write in, but then again, that’s the point. I felt like replying with, ‘that’s because it’s getting worse, and writing about it makes it final’, but then that’d be dramatic, and I wasn’t sure who I was really talking to anyway.

I think it’d be easier to just kill myself. Not because I want to die, or because I’m sad, or anything else that people want to die over. I’m just really anxious about the first day of school. Not the second. Or the third. Just the first. Because that first day will determine a lot of things. Like a routine I’ll follow and the maybeness of being in a class with none of my friends. Since the end of July, it’s all I’ve been able to think about. Just killing myself. Just so I don’t have to face that one day. Or drop out of school completely. Dunno.

We went to the movies a few days ago. To see the Dark Knight. Her third time, my eighth. I didn’t want to tell her I didn’t have a good time. I didn’t want to tell her I had no idea what was going on in the movie, that I wasn’t sure why I liked it anymore. I tried to pay attention, but I kept hearing them in the back of the movie theater. I knew I wasn’t alone, then, I knew then something horrible is going to happen. She had left, before the movie started, to go to the bathroom. That’s when the seat shook by itself. I kept hearing scratching sounds. I didn’t turn around.

As much as I try, I can’t remember what the Joker looks like. I keep going to see the movie, but afterwards, I forget it completely. All I can remember is the animated version of Joker, the one I grew up with.

Mom knows something. She’s buying a TV, took me to Ruby Tuesdays, told me she’s sorry she always disappoints me, and says, ‘Anything for my baby’. I can’t handle being around lots of people. I couldn’t even go into a Taco Bell. Too many people. I’m getting angry a lot now, too. I don’t act on it, but I feel like I just want people to shut up.  Sometimes I just get so annoyed over nothing, I wish I could just smash someones face in.

I hate you, go away.

But it must not be me. Because I don’t want to emotionally damage people. I don’t do murder. I’m not cliched like that.

I don’t know how to reach out and ask for help. I like to keep it nice and silent inside of me, and smile to everyone else, and give the laugh I always give. I don’t want anything to be a big deal. And I hate that worrying people do.

I kid myself when I say Jayden can’t control me.

He says, eat chocolate. And I eat chocolate. I hate chocolate. It makes me gag, it makes me sick, and the smell makes me want to puke. But he says eat, and I eat. He’s got me so well learned that he doesn’t have to even say it sometimes, because I’ll just do.

It’s getting harder and harder to put the right emotions on my face, and say the appropriate thing. I keep forgetting which people I’m suppose to answer too, so I don’t speak at all much. And I don’t have anything left to say. The thought of hanging out with people is so emotionally draining that I don’t want to, but I fear the lack of memories I’d gain from not going, or the story opportunities that I’d gain.

It’s getting harder and harder to wake up. I keep trying to run away in my sleep. That’s why I don’t want too. I don’t want tomorrow to come, and it will if I go to sleep. Because I’ll stay asleep. And tomorrow will turn into the day after.

Theres someone new following me, more boldly, and more in plain sight then the others. The shadow of him looms by the side wall across the cash register, but when I look, nobody is there. Or he’d be in the back seat and I’ll only realize he was there when he leaves.

I’m terrified I made Jack real. But I doubt that’s the case.

I keep hearing cellphone music go off. All the time. But it’s always something else. It’s symbolic. Maybe it’s death around the corner calling.

See this all would be fine, but I just don’t feel fine. I don’t feel like acting anything. I just want to be antisocial, angry, mean, and cruel. I just want people to die again.

So maybe I’m worried Jayden is coming back. Maybe that’s what I’m telling myself to justify it all.

It’s okay though. So far, absolutely nobody has noticed.

Relief is mine.

This.

All I know is that if I write it, it’s real. It’s all so real. Jack has been added into my world now, and I say Jack because everything must be coded, because I’m afraid to let people know what really is going on. No, I’m afraid to let Jack know that I know that he’s there.

Someone once asked, I’m pretty sure, what it was like to not know what it is to be in reality. So I’m trying to put it in better words.

Thing is, I’m confused. I’ve been confused since Mark labeled me.

Used to be simple. I’d pretend everything was fictional just like how everyone wanted. But now that its true. I’m unsure if when I’m pretending to pretend or if I’m pretending to pretend that I’ve pretended.

Shouldn’t I be feeling? Shouldn’t I? I nearly ran the car right into another–whoops, another lie, sorry, I sped and stuff.

Okay, look. I’ve driven the car three times now on the road. In highways, whatever. Shouldn’t I at least feel something other than indifference? Or am I feeling something and pretending I’m not?

I can’t tell what is real.

Sometimes Dumbledore comes around, or am I pretending he is? And then I’m I pretending to pretend that he was? Or what? I don’t know. I don’t know.

When I say I lie, or like when I say I start a story and then remember it hasn’t happened, I just don’t know. I don’t know which one is real. And then I worry if I’m lying about not knowing. I’m confused.

I’m unsure if yesterday happen. I’m unsure if minutes before happened. I’m unsure about everything, all the time, forever. Until I forget that I was unsure in the first place, because sometimes I just forget. I could tell you something really important and then forget I even said it.

I’m constantly worried about the people I talk to because sometimes I wonder if they’re even there at all. I wonder if I should mention dead bodies in the bathroom stall, but I don’t. If they’re there, it isn’t my business. But then now I wonder, did I really see anything at all?

I need someone who is real by everyones deffinasfatasf to be with me.

All the time.

In public. Because if I don’t have that person, I don’t know where I am. I don’t know where I am. I think I must’ve imagined it all. Maybe I just walked here. In school I wonder if I even go there, if I’m just someone who accidentally got on the wrong bus. I’m unsure if the class I have is mine and I wait for people to go in the class before so I’m sure.

If I’m out with someone and they walk away for a moment, I doubt the reality of the situation. I’m confused. Was I even there with them to begin with? And then I think, well, maybe I’m just pretending to be confused.

Because I don’t know.

I can go to school, and somedays, I won’t know who I am. I see the faces, and I don’t know them, but they know me, so I smile, and I stay quiet. Usually I agree with whatever someone says. Because I don’t know.

Billy once wondered why my stories were more important than him, than my friends.

Because I don’t know, Billy. I don’t know any of the reality of anything and my only constant has been this. The words. The soft voices that comfort me or mock me. And even then, I don’t know with them either. But when I write, everything is important.

Hard to explain. Because it’s real? It’s real.

And I’m happy. My choice, and that’s what I choose, I choose happiness. And the funny thing is…

I know I made myself this way. I know I made it so I’m unsure which reality is the real one. I know I did this.

Because I know I’d rather be like this then linger for one moment in reality, where everyone is miserable.