Mother

They're suppose to be the people who love you unconditionally. The ones who are there for you, who support you, who make you feel safe and protected because it is what instinct tells them to do.

I am envious of people who have that.

My mother is a heinous bitch. It is not momentary teen angst, or an outcry from discipline, but the pure and simple truth.

Most mothers have rough times with there teenage daughters, cracking down on them when they misbehave, arguing over moral differences, but ultimately allowing them to grow and flourish and live there separate lives. May I just say that while my views on sex and drugs and other various moral principles may vary from those of my mother, I have never once been out of line, in fact I'm so far from crossing the line that I'm rarely in view of it's existence.

I think around the time I turned 16 my mother realized something, she realized that someday very soon I was going to leave her; she realized that the physical abuse she had caused me as a young child, and the verbal abuse that has maintained my entire life meant that I may never come back. (After 16 years, it hit her that gee, maybe it's not a good idea to hassle your daughter about what a stupid fat ugly bitch she is.) When she finally came around and decided she wanted me to love her, she realized that the day that I was twelve years old and she walked into my room, cold and emotionless and told me "You know, it's not that I hate you, it's just that I don't love you. I never wanted you to begin with and I could never love something like you;you just irritate me too much," was the day she blew her last chance with me.

We can pretend it's okay. That's what she wants to do. She wants to think that by fixing my lunch everyday suddenly the black eye she gave me when I was nine and didn't understand my math homework is canceled out. That by using the excuse of "going through a hard time" it's acceptable to mask her hate for herself as hate for me. But it is not okay. It will never be accepted or forgiven.

Someday I might love her. Distance makes it easier to deal with her vapid, shallow, spiteful nature. My mother is not an evil woman after all, despite the message my memories and perception may convey; there's simply too much bad blood between us-we survived my dad together and it ruined us, we blame each other for it. The woman is in fact strong and beautiful and beholds one of the strongest moral compasses I have yet to encounter. But she suffocates me. She doesn't understand me and she never will. She doesn't understand the fact that when you are the sole adult in a household as a child, taking care of your mother in recovery from varies surgeries, helping her face her various hardships, while trying to compensate as a parental figure for your brothers while your father is out god knows where doing god knows what/who, you stop being a child. I may still be somewhat naive to the more scandalous ways of the world, but I have not been a child in a very long time and I do not appreciated being treated as one. I can clean my own room, and take care of myself, and should be trusted to not only be mature enough to do so, but to have a bit of freedom now and then.

Even if it is only my spirit in danger, I need to get away from this place because I realize more and more that it is killing me softly.

Procrastination

It's 9:38 on a Monday night and I have yet to even open my backpack to begin the monotonous volumes of homework with which it is bursting at the seams. Instead, I have spent the last 5 hours I have been home on the internet, cutting my nails, wandering around the room, staring at my USC app, pondering life, and basically just wasting time in as many ways as possible.

I don't know why it happens, but it does. Procrastination. It is a part of me. Whether something is urgent or not. It's as if I've lost all ability to be productive. Somedays I'll be interested in getting a jump start on a project, or somedays I'll know I really need to do some studying but the second I sit down to work, boredom ensues and I find myself fighting work with every fiber of my being (except for the tiny strand of logic telling me I should be working).

It's kind of scary because it feels like I can't even control it anymore. The focus, the self control, it's just not there. No matter how much I wish I could be productive. I have no power over myself...unless you count the power to waste time.

Jumble

I've started about five separate entries to no avail. I feel like all I do is repeat myself anymore. Writing about the same stupid emotionally dramatic nothings over and over again, my life constantly spinnning in a cycle, the same problems appear over and over, never resolved; the psycological definition of insanity. I'm tired of being so boring on here, and more, I'm tired of working so hard, methodically scrutinizing every delicate word just to be boring. I miss the days when blog writing came easy-the days I just put down what I felt and it came out as poetry-but I suppose life was easier then too.

I want to write about internet boy. I've tried, but I just can't find the words. I feel like I've over-discussed every aspect of that relationship with everyone from him to my cat to the extent that words have lost all value and the emotion behind them has been vanquished. With him it kind of seems like I'm just waiting for the storm. We're just on two very different pages in life; so much that I;m not even sure we're in the same book anymore. It's too much work and it shouldn't be. I kind of don't even want to be friends anymore, but I'm not quite sure that erasing him will be as easy as it sounds. I have a feeling we'll be in limbo for a while as he jumps from girl to girl with no avail and then back to me for support, so I think I've got time to figure it out. Or maybe just wing it when the moment strikes; I've wasted too much time thinking about him anyway. I'm really just apathetic at this point-like the Novocaine before they drill your teeth, I'm trying to numb myself before we get to the part that hurts.

Part of me wants to write about school and my general apathy towards life-how there's something about my house that just makes me feel as if I am fighting to hang on to my soul. When I'm out it doesn't strike so much, but at home it's just constantly painful. There's too many bad memories. The walls, the people, they make me feel hopeless. I want to feel powerful, excited, enthused, eager, the way I did all summer; but when I gaze into the foggy skies of my plexy-glass bubble, I feel nothing but trapped without even a shimmery ray of hope for escape.
I want to talk about how this bubble, this apathy is eating me alive inside-or rather how I'm eating it, burying ever negative thought or feeling inside me with any food I can get my hands on, struggling to build up a nice tasty layer of false-happiness to keep me from drowning in a sea of black. So many things, things I have repressed my entire life as well as recent issues, a myriad of thought and pain and pattern and subliminal messages that I cannot even begin to understand, let alone describe, that all seem to be cataclysmicly encroaching at the exact moment that I need them to disappear.


I finished Breaking Dawn last week, and I loved the part about Bella describing how when she became a vampire, everything became mentally clearer; like there was so much space in her head that she never knew was there before. I can't remember the last time I felt compotent. Like I felt like I knew what the hell was going on. My brain is just a jumbled slur that can't focus on anything but pleasurous activities for any given length of time. It's terribly frustrating to be so mentally unfocused all the time, it makes me understand how difficult it must be to become senal. I miss the days when life was simple enough that could at least follow along. I know what's causing the problem, what's affecting all of my problems: clinical depression. But I don't want to deal with it. I'm scared that if I try to deal with it, if I allow myself to be raw and exposed and vulnerable, that I will simply be taken advantage of as I always have by anyone I've ever trusted, and worse, that I will never get control of the pain again. It's taken me such a long time to develop control.

Girl

She lives inside of me and she slips out in wavering moments-after a long day, a failed test, a broken heart.

Though sometimes quieter than others, her voice is always there. It whispers hateful nothings in my ears. Telling me I'm ugly, and stupid, and unloved.

She wants freedom. She wants to be let lose as I made the mistake of doing once before. The freedom she offers is tempting-when she is lose I have no ties with anyone, just me, just power. She claws at my insides. Sometimes I'm worried that if I lose control, she'll take over again-that I'll become someone I don't recognize.

She is wrath. Nothing more. She wants to be more, but she can't. She hates everyone, whether they do anything or not; she hates them simply because they exist. She knows it's wrong, she knows it won't make her feel better, but she can't help it. All she sees is red. She wants to make every living creature suffer as much a she does. She wants to watch them squirm in agony.

This girl is dangerous. Not just to the people who dare cross her path, but sometimes to herself. She worries that one day she's going to lose it. The way she muses about slicing her delicate wrists after a devastating day, the way she wishes she could throw up that piece of cake she shouldn't've eaten, the masochistic moments where the logic of right and wrong is the only thing holding her feet firmly to the floor.

She attempts to mask her pain as anger. She's just so hurt she doesn't know how to fix herself. She feels like Pandora's box, wanting to be released; but she's afraid-she isn't so sure there's any hope at the bottom.

I know that I can control her. I know from experience that even when she gets out, even when I hit rock bottom, I can fix it again. But it's scary to think that a part of yourself is that dark. It makes you feel like such a freak. =/