Weird

Tonight I watched a movie where I saw myself. I was 11 years old again, angry, confused, scared. I can’t say that I miss my father. Because a part of me doesn’t. But I start to wonder if I actually do. I see a pattern forming. I’m helpless to stop it. I wanted to feel alone. Alone without anyone wanting, without anyone expecting anything from me. Without me expecting things from others. I didn’t build this wall, it always seems as though it’s built for me. Every couple of years it seems as though I can’t do anything right. I make impulsive decisions--say impulsive things. I never get to explain myself. And it’s frustrating. Frustration that leads to anger. Anger that leads to a great sadness that scares me. A darkness that leads me to think of alien things like death. My death. Every day I hear about people with suicidal thoughts and think, they must be crazy. But I’ve thought of my suicide 1,000 times this week. And it’s always a way out--to escape this never ending torture of the pressure I feel from everything. I’m broken and all I can do is wait it out until I’m mended again.

Tonight I wanted to write. To really start digging at this nagging feeling. To bite my emotions and spit them onto this page. But I had no where to go. Everywhere I wanted to go was occupied by one of those bridges I’ve burned in the last week. I felt helpless to be alone. And now that I am alone, I’m starting to question if this is truly what I want. The thought of friends is overwhelming. All I feel is this pressure on my chest when I think about all the obligations, all the forced fake smiles, all the fake laughter, pretending to be jolly and happy and it’s too much. I think about leaving and there’s some joy in that. The thought of starting out new, fresh--paving a beginning instead of trying to fight the flames from this torch I keep burning bridges with. I never wanted to burn these bridges. In truth, I wasn’t tending the flames--I just let them creep up on me and now that they’re in a full blaze, I can’t stop them. The old me would fight. The new me knows it’s a losing battle. You just let the fire burn until it smolders, and in the ashes you’ll find some kind of rebirth. Like a phoenix rising.

Where was I when this all unraveled? I keep asking myself that… and I honestly don’t know. People have just assumed. And I’ve assumed. And it’s all become this huge utter mess. How do you undo something that was never done? And how do you explain something that never existed if people believe it truly did? It’s like proving the existence or nonexistence of a deity… you can’t if someone believes in it.

I wish I could explain myself. I wish I could put into words something that would make people get it.

All I want is someone who doesn’t just assume--someone who just knows without asking. Someone who gets when I need to explain, someone who won’t let me shut down, give up. Because that’s what I’m doing. I’m giving up. These bridges can smolder without me. I never stood a chance against fate.

I found this document on my computer named "Ramblings" created April 8, 2010. After reading it, I didn't know who wrote it--was that me? Did I really create these words, have these thoughts? I vaguely remember writing it, but my voice sounds alien. The feelings she's describing are mine, the thoughts she's having are mine also, but the way she is explaining and speaking; she's a stranger. I don't know her.

Who was she? Was she happy? She sounds... sad, but not broken. What movie did she see herself in; did she give up? Or give in? Did she burn with her bridges? Or allow fate it's dance? Did she reconnect with her father--did she forgive him? Or did she forget herself?

This was before I moved. Before I had to become a grown up. Before the world caed in on me and I couldn't breath. This was before the Tin Man. Before the Rabbit Hole. Before He-who-should-not-be-named. Before I 'lost' it. Before everything. This was 8 days after I turned 23. 23. The year I waited for my entire life because that was the year I dreamed that everything in my life would come together; it all fell apart. And here I am almost 2 years later, that person---that 23 year old girl burning bridges, angry with her father, confused--was me, IS ME. Just 2 years later, more heart broken. More confused. More sad. More full of anger than ever. More alone then she was when she wrote I never stood a chance against fate.