throwaway blog

and yet.

it's not what i want it to be, the reality of humans is never as good as i see on tv.

and you're behind the curve. eventually, they tell me, the rage will subside, your wounds will convalesce, you will feel the comfort you used to feel. you will heal, and the love will return.

but the fact that it hasn't yet. that my life still feels so inexorably tied to their expectations, that their disapproval is somehow still the worst thing that's ever happened to me. a lunatic. a liberal. a runaway who had her mind warped by the freedom.

if they'd supported me, let me go earlier, the damage would be less. so much less. fewer wounds, less time to heal.

but they didn't. they did not. i was told to care for them, that there was no money for me--just for cars and garages and houses--not for my school, not for my food, just for the status symbols. always style over sustenance substance

if i'd run, without my legs bound by obligation, maybe that hard 4 years would have faded, sharp memories dulled by time. if you'd let me go then, i wouldn't be using them as knives now.

the truth? i don't miss any of it. the comfort was fleeting compared to the fear, and now i have comfort eternal, of my own will and creation. i am allowed to be something else, something more--no longer a crab in the bucket, but someone who lives.

happy about the table, and the floor is less cluttered. the laundry is done, even put away, if incorrectly.

and yet.

the sink full of flies and dishes with the dishwasher full, the singular meal that i hate, sitting in the fridge with nothing else. nothing else.

i do think i ask too much.

you say "i always have to be on now--if im not, shit hits the fan"

i mutter "Now you know how I feel". The argument is that you never ask me to feel that way, therefore it is my choice to feel that way.

i don't have the mobility aid i needed. i asked you to do two things. zero were done. you never replied. what did you do?

you think you can handle it? obviously not; you can't handle HEARING about it, apparently.

and i'm the miserable one? rich, considering you're the idiot trading meals for nail appointments. you are too close to the people you serve; you'll never get out of it. i'm busy achieving and succeeding.

stop giving me attitude like you know better; you don't know anything. at all. you have no life skills, no ability to make anything better for yourself, no security in your heart to create something lasting. stop acting like you're listening to anyone, whether it be me or your therapist. you're just continually fucking up--that's why you hang out with people younger than you: you're like 2 life stages behind where you should be.

you're only remembered by how you make others feel: you make others angry, you make them feel small.

with the blood and the rage and all

was

i go through these phases: start a fight. end a relationship.

why am i so angry, so afraid?

done trying to please my MAGA-ass family. or even be cordial. i have never needed them.

the people who were single issue voters in post-WWI Germany are remembered as Nazis.

Must be nice.

i was waiting for you.

you kept telling me you had it under control, a few more weeks, give it time, you just needed a little more time.

i knew it wasn't true, but what were my other options? i could really only either sit around and wait and live my own life, or actively ruin yours with my impatience. so the days stretched to weeks became months ran to years.

it's taken me so long to snap. look how much bullshit i can swallow, i know i'm spitting it back up at you right now but please have the decency to at least look a little impressed.