* disclaimer: this is word vomit. i’m safe; i promise. i started typing, and it just didn’t stop. and will this stay here? i don’t know; probably not. but i am safe, i promise.
also, trigger warning, multiple - so only read and your own decision of whether or not it’s in your best interest. protect your mental wellbeing first and foremost. and no, i don’t expect anyone to actually read all of this - that’s fine. attention is not the motive here.
i’m so sick of being so fucking stuck and not knowing how the hell to get out of this fucked up rotation of every single day being the same, always being so alone and so fucking tired of failing. i was known as one of the sort of “gifted” kids. then everything, it just fucking flipped. crashed and burned. everything was too much. panic took over. every task that’s typically deemed “simple,” it was too much. too fucking much. and now i’m here. a fuck up, having gone nowhere, self sabotaging unintentionally, a burden, too much, not enough, lonely, scared, alone, lonely, terrified, stuck, fuck up, failure, fuck up, alone, panic. panic. fucked up. disappointment. burden. embarrassment. liability. inconvenience. failure. fuck up. fucked up fuck up. in the way. always in the way. tired. fighting. tearing at waves that break through, trying to just grasp onto something, anything, to keep me from going under, but you can’t hold onto water it just slips through your hands, and i’m coughing it up trying to fight. but who the hell am i fighting for? everyone else. everyone else who is disappointed, disgusted, sick of me. sick of me not being able to do the things that “normal” people do. sick of me not being able to BE “normal.” i try. i try and i try and i fight and scratch and claw at the earth that’s crumbling around me, filling in this fucking hole i was shoved into and trying to bury me alive. i’m fighting for my life and everyone’s watching and asking why i can’t do better, be better, be something that isn’t a waste, an inconvenient anomaly that just takes up space and makes everything worse. fuck up. failure. breathing, heart beating, maybe technically alive - but not living. not living up to anyone’s expectations, standards, living up to anyone’s requirements, regardless of how much i try to make myself look like i’m not dying every single goddamned minute of my life, and apparently that’s the only goddamn thing i’m good at. masking. masking. my entire life, masking. and when the mask fell, it’s when i thought i was finally safe. safe to be me. safe because i wasn’t constantly living a life walking on eggshells not knowing if that day would involve a fight, idiocy, faking small talk & smiles & laughter if a good mood was actually present - the beer the only fucking cause, and that wouldn’t last but when the switch would flip was anyone’s guess, make nice. nod. smile. get out of there as soon as possible without it seeming like you were trying to keep your distance. but that’s what every day was, trying to stay away, making decisions based on timing of where he’d be at any given time. night time - single file line, down the basement stairs. four. three people, one dog. evenings spent together, safe but the danger lingered just up the stairs, through the doorway and around the corner - hopeful for the alcohol to act and passing out be sooner rather than later. retreat to my room, our room? my room? how many nights were spent all in one room with the door barricaded? wait that’s not normal? that was my normal. bunk bed. me, top. mom, bottom. mattress hauled in across the short hallway, brother. dog, safe along with us. door locked. door lock was easy to pick. wooden toy box, shoved in front. eventually, sleep. eventually, waking and moving from the couch to “their” room, snoring from hell on the other side of my wall. normal. this was, normal. board games, video games, RPG/MPRG on laptops, reading, trying to pretend that this wasn’t fucked up, that this was just..how it was and maybe it /wasn’t so bad./ i mean, after all. the laughing to the point of coughing and tears. we had eachother and we understood each other more than anyone else. but, did we? maybe, maybe not.
escape to grandmas, dog along with. come home, passed out on the couch, tv so loud itcan be heard outside. garage door, won’t open.
rage = disengage. in more than one way.
no, terror, that would make everything worse.
there was one way in yet, after all.
go through the yard, around to the back of the house. up the stairs, on the deck. through the glass, uncomfortably positioned and unconscious. all the lights still on, tv flickering, blaring - no hearing in one ear meant trying to deafen everyone else too.
i still wonder about that. an accident, a bat to the back of the head, tinnitus and everything. accident. accident. was is? sometimes i had wished that that would’ve been the end of the literal devil’s little minion right then and there. that’s wrong though. push the thought away, it didn’t happen anyway, nothing to do about it now. just slowly creep through the door. the one that worked. up the stairs, to my bedroom. my bedroom? our bedroom? who knows.
eleven years of waking up and faking it like everything was just fucking fine.
he’s gone now, still harassing, but physically he’s gone - though the fear of that changing is was enough for an entire city block to feel panicked - but i was all inside of *me*, can’t show it, gotta hide it. hide, hide, my entire life everything was some so sort of hide and seek, but nobody else knew and nobody tried to seek.
6 months? a year? 2? probably somewhere in between.
walls fell, the dry wall crumbled - you see dry wall isn’t as sturdy as it looks. i mean, a fight went through, pretty damn easily. a reminder on the wall until 28. covered up, patched up, still noticeable, sometimes still look and expect it to be there, and it is, but it isn’t. i can see it though, it’s still there.
and the rest of it it all, crumbled.
hiding, faking, trying to appease, trying to keep the peace, trying to be “normal.” trying to pretend
too much, too much too fucking much, no more no more, i can’t.
still swallowed into the depths of a house crashed in on me, a house i lived in, a house that never felt safe, but had to feel safe - tell yourself your safe, convince yourself you’re safe, maybe then you’ll really be safe.
how close? how close was i, were we? to a tragedy seen on the news, that never could be US, but it could’ve been US.
listened to, watched interviews?
so eerily mirroring him in almost every single way you could think of.
An innocent life, 13 years old.
i don’t know, they’re one in the same almost,
their names mesh together as much as their personalities emulate.
but, how close was almost?
a week? a day? a month? years?
only to visit another, the one that won’t let go,
not enough. too much, not enough, in the way, fucked up fuck up,
try harder, it’s implied.
not enough, it’s implied.
this house, it’s never been home.
this house carries secrets and memories of horror stories.
these days, i’m often heard yelling in my sleep.
that is, when i do sleep.
even in my dreams, i’m fighting for some sort of control over SOMETHING, fighting to be HEARD, and - more often than i’d like to recollect - fighting for survival, from him.
fighting to keep them safe, stab. stab. blood.
i mean after all? 7? years old, arguing. fighting, moved into the garage to muffle from us.
try the doorknob - momma might not be safe, momma might need help, momma might need me.
force my way out when tried to be shielded, shut out.
what happened next i don’t know/
how long was it before that drawer unlocked, opened, and the pistol came out, the threats made through drunken teary eyes and manipulation.
everything went in slow motion, and also sped up at the same time.
probably dissociating, but i didn’t know that then.
what if it was turned? what if another target, the only other target possible, was now the line of sight?
but it wasn’t. his. fucking. responsibility,
responsibilities were never appointed where they should’ve
and sometimes i wish that night the gun would’ve gone off when held to his head,
but the even more intrusive thoughts wished it would’ve accidentally gone off toward me.
it would’ve ended all that of it before the last 22? years spiralled.
i’m not sure where clawing through nothing is getting me,
or is the glowing exit sign,
red letters glaring in a dark deserted, broken down dilapidated hallway of all everything i could’ve been, should’ve been, but never was
baratheonpilled
blakekathryn
andulkaphoto
theartofmadeline
prguitarman
origamiaround
jbbartram-illu
