“The eyes may be windows to the soul, but a decent manipulator knows how to draw attention away from those panes…so it’s virtually impossible to look into what you are not able to see.”
Laceration to the mind, scarring evident in the eyes. Humanity isn’t the only thing that suffers, (mostly from itself), but it sure is a fine example of what can be and is wrong. But who am I, or anyone, for that matter, to determine the status of how all things are? There are so many good things around, but then there are an equal, if not surplus, of the bad that seem to act like a virus and slowly eat away at the spirit. Life isn’t Facebook, you can’t just ‘like’ or ‘dislike’ your way through it and post random shit that says, “Hey, I’m logged on, so somebody recognize that I’m here and ‘talk’ to me!” WHY do we crave such fake, social interaction?! Before the whole networking thing became so ridiculously renowned people actually went places and did things, and things were better when you could actually relay what you did through the spoken language to other people, as oppose to that damn text speech. Life: back then it simply was what it was and innocence shielded us from ever seeing otherwise. Now, it seems, (for me at least), that it continues to be what it is –a higher, selfish degree of what it was...and I hate it.
There is no pain because it was always there, a sort of comfort blanket, but one that was previously worn on the heavy shoulders of an unidentified corpse. The threads of the fabric are constantly being mended, with what, it cannot be determined. (Bittersweet memories? Wonders of what the future will present? Fears of all things that could and have gone wrong, as well as the fear of letting fear control us?) What exactly IS pain, do you know? Is it a broken bone, or the reason why the bone was broken? Is it the taste of freedom that we never had, or the suffocation of loneliness as a result of liberation? Is it the thought of the last goodbye, the final wave, or the hopefulness in meeting a new face and using that same hand to shake the hand of another? There are so many things that could be considered ‘pain’, but everyone’s definition is different. For me, it’s the knowing that there are so many things to be done, but no, (or rare), means of doing them: of not having control over what I know to be wrong. It’s when my dad says, “See ya later,“ to my sister and not me when I’m standing right beside her. It’s feeling like there’s a path in the snow I have to find, but somebody’s broken the shovel and hid the pieces without so much as a ‘sorry’ or recognition that they even did it…and I always know who did it, because it’s always the same selfish person.
And I think that’s something that all of us live with: some form of negligence, of conscious carelessness. Someone who knows they’re holding you down better than gravity ever could, (thus thinking that they’re a force to be reckoned with), but refuses to show that side to anyone but the people that he (or she) is supposed to actually love and take care of the most. Physical pain can be controlled most of the time: the real murderer is the mind, and the emotions it invokes through observations, experiences, and relation…or the lack thereof. Pain is the want, the NEED, for beneficial change, and having it tauntingly growing forever in your mind and vision, knowing that it’s right there, just RIGHT THERE. You could literally reach out your hand and suddenly the world is an easier, more enjoyable place. But, uh-oh, there’s another hand there ready to smack yours out of the way, so that its body can emerge to stand guard in front of that intangible object, all because that person never had the same need to reach out. Opportunity is almost always there, and it’s not always as distant as one might believe: if anything, it’s most likely going to be hiding in the shadow of a madman. All you have to do is follow the shadow and see its owner’s true face.
I envy people who have decent, functional fathers because it breaks my heart to know that I can never have that. I’ve tried to be my dad’s friend, but it seems like I was just born to turn into his enemy. I have no remembrance of when he ever said that he loved me or was actually proud of ME, and not just my siblings. The only true time I’ve ever gotten a hug from him was when one of my kittens died, which was definitely a surprise. When I go to a friend’s house he doesn’t even notice I’m gone, which really doesn’t matter because we never spend time together since he always gets mad at me for one reason or another. Get this: I threw a milk jug away the other day and he came storming into my room and yelled at me for it. Won’t tell why he ‘needs’ it, but cleeeearrrly it just was wrong of me. Really, I know nothing about that man, and quite frankly, I don’t think he knows himself. I was so pissed at him once that I almost called a mental institution on him… the number was actually for a children institute, but if that’s what he wants to act like…
When I got back from this science program that lasted 2 weeks, I made dear old dad absolutely livid. He does that really annoying thing where he just stands there and stares angrily, like doing that is going to assert dominance or something. Well, two can play at that game, daddy-kins… so I do . We almost got into a literal fist fight that time, which is sad that we didn’t because I was looking for a reason to call the cops on that douchebag. And that’s another thing: what really pains me is the fact that this past year, I’ve started confessing to things and asking for help. When that whole thing happened I had a literal mental breakdown, where I told my mom about when I was 5 or 6 and had almost tried committing suicide. I don’t know if she thinks I was trying to be dramatic or anything, but it wasn’t like she seemed to take me seriously. (I love her, but sometimes I swear I don’t know her either.) So long story short, I said that I really need to see a therapist because I just can’t take it anymore…and yet I’m still taking it because nothing’s being done. It’s one of those things where you can’t talk to your family because they’ll wonder why certain things affect you the way they do, and you have trouble talking to your friends because, well, they just wouldn’t understand it. So, where the hell is the township, or that Women’s Services representative that I’ve talked to?! When’s my mom actually going to grow some backbone and take a risk, if not for my siblings and me, then for herself? It’s not like I’m asking for a fucking miracle: I’m asking to talk to someone who might be able to do something, someone who won’t just pity and then walk away. (I HATE pity: it gets nobody anywhere.) I’ve spent all my childhood indirectly telling things, but not a single person seemed to get the hint, and now that I’ve finally said something, no one’s even listening because, (and I know this), it seems like just another unfortunate story. Let me tell you something; being misfortunate is having a trial-error, or whatever it is, not working out for you in a good way: it’s different when things weren’t even attempted. I told my mom a couple weeks ago that we should write into someone about my dad, but she said to “have some pride”…sooooo asking for help is wrong? That goes against everything you’ve ever taught me, woman! It’s not pride to live the way we do, mom, and I KNOW you know that. I’m tired of not knowing what normal teenage feelings and thoughts are like, because I’m always living an older life to prepare for the one that I’m determined to make. I can’t wait to go to college, because it means that I am the one in control: NOT that man who calls himself…wait….he doesn’t even introduce himself as my dad to people, I forgot. I’m sorry I do well in academics and the arts and that I actually plan to do something with my life for myself. I’m sorry I don’t do drugs or that I’m not pregnant at 16 like some of my cousins. Maybe if I started cutting my skin people would actually see a reason to do something. (Tried it before to see if it actually did anything to change my emotions when I was upset, but I knew it was stupid so I stopped.) And I apologize that I won’t pacify people solely because I know they’re in moral wrong. I refuse, I simply refuse to not try. I wish I believed in a god, I really, really wish I did. Things might not seem so bad, and people wouldn’t seem so....hmmmm….much like the way they are. (Don’t know the right words there.)
It’s not like I have bars preventing me from just leaving: I would actually love to be alone to roam as I please. The want for normalcy is what drives me insane, and the stupid voice of “you’ve worked your way up to here, so just get to college” keeps smacking me in the face. But then I had a thought recently: people can emancipate themselves from their legal guardians. Things might not seem all that bad how I describe them, but trust me, there’s a ton of shit that I’ve left out and that I will never disclose on a website. A book, maybe, but only time will tell. I am seriously going to look into that emancipation though, because literally, everything that goes on in this household is really taking a toll on me, partially because they’re things that I think about honestly ALL the time. I don’t have people dying in my family, or physical illnesses or abuse, but someone needs to say when enough’s enough. And as a part of my family, I see no reason why that someone couldn’t be me, even if I AM only a ‘teenager’.
But anyways, that’s another one of my heartfelt rampages for whoever decides to read them. I apologize to anyone who actually does read everything I post and finds it to be like a broken record, but (*ahem) you can just shove it: LIFE is a broken record.
Lots of love, my Disturbed Ones,
-your Satan Maiden \m/
“I push my fingers into my eyes. It’s the only thing that slowly stops the ache. But it’s made of all the things I have to take. If the pain goes on, I’m not gonna make it…”
-‘Duality’ by Slipknot