Most blessed.
I highly doubt that there is anyone with less social interaction than me.
No. I know that that isn't true.
But I feel a guilt and an envy and a bitterness for being so hidden from the world.
But if I weren't hidden, and they saw me, every one of them, I would suspect them all of treacherous things.
The name calling, the poisoning, the laughter.
I would be bullied.
So I remember these things, and I fall right back into place with my being alright with it just being me.
Just being Ashley.
It lasted from when I was 18 until I turned 23.
About four years of "having a life". Though most of it makes me cringe to recall.
Some of those memories were sunsets on desert islands.
Some of those memores were my sitting in a bathtub of my own vomit and hoping to god I wasn't pregnant with the child of a man who said he'd put a shotgun to my head.
I've rarely encountered any man that has respected me.
And I can blame that on myself, I know that now.
I let myself rot at the bottom of that disused well.
Filthy, pathetic, useless, wretched creature I was.
I'd spit on them if I could.
Ohhhh all the people I wish I could just spit on now.
And I know that's not the proper way to feel about these sorts of things. But concerning these specific subjects, inducing any sort of pain is the only thing that will make them even consider that what they've done is wrong. Was wrong. Is still wrong.
Thinking back now, my days working at Disneyland seem like some strange, dimly-lit nighttime dream that was bordering on a nightmare.
The entire thing just seems unreal.
The (who I assumed to be a) chauvenistic pig I clung to for dear life so that I wouldn't be completely alone. The fireworks setting off mere feet away while I sat on the benches and tried so desperately not to gasp aloud. The colors and the music and the travelers with their backpacks and the oversized pockets I'd stuff my fists in on my oversized skirt so that I'd have something to do with my hands to make me appear less terrified.
How strange was that. How unreal.
I imagined myself making a living out of it. Obtaining some kind of steady "life" from it.
Going to grab some lunch with a couple of people that didn't think I was a complete waste of space and time. Meet a man from another Land while the fireworks go off at 9:30 and who isn't so thrown off by my incessant blushing.
Gaining any sort of thing from this experience that wouldn't make me feel so hidden and alone.
It's terrifying. Every bit of it.
But I just sit and do nothing about it. Not that I could either way.
These nerves don't allow it.
I wouldn't trust them. I wouldn't believe them. Their laughter would always be directed at me. They would whisper about me as soon as I left.
What an annoying little mental barrier.
No. I know that that isn't true.
But I feel a guilt and an envy and a bitterness for being so hidden from the world.
But if I weren't hidden, and they saw me, every one of them, I would suspect them all of treacherous things.
The name calling, the poisoning, the laughter.
I would be bullied.
So I remember these things, and I fall right back into place with my being alright with it just being me.
Just being Ashley.
It lasted from when I was 18 until I turned 23.
About four years of "having a life". Though most of it makes me cringe to recall.
Some of those memories were sunsets on desert islands.
Some of those memores were my sitting in a bathtub of my own vomit and hoping to god I wasn't pregnant with the child of a man who said he'd put a shotgun to my head.
I've rarely encountered any man that has respected me.
And I can blame that on myself, I know that now.
I let myself rot at the bottom of that disused well.
Filthy, pathetic, useless, wretched creature I was.
I'd spit on them if I could.
Ohhhh all the people I wish I could just spit on now.
And I know that's not the proper way to feel about these sorts of things. But concerning these specific subjects, inducing any sort of pain is the only thing that will make them even consider that what they've done is wrong. Was wrong. Is still wrong.
Thinking back now, my days working at Disneyland seem like some strange, dimly-lit nighttime dream that was bordering on a nightmare.
The entire thing just seems unreal.
The (who I assumed to be a) chauvenistic pig I clung to for dear life so that I wouldn't be completely alone. The fireworks setting off mere feet away while I sat on the benches and tried so desperately not to gasp aloud. The colors and the music and the travelers with their backpacks and the oversized pockets I'd stuff my fists in on my oversized skirt so that I'd have something to do with my hands to make me appear less terrified.
How strange was that. How unreal.
I imagined myself making a living out of it. Obtaining some kind of steady "life" from it.
Going to grab some lunch with a couple of people that didn't think I was a complete waste of space and time. Meet a man from another Land while the fireworks go off at 9:30 and who isn't so thrown off by my incessant blushing.
Gaining any sort of thing from this experience that wouldn't make me feel so hidden and alone.
It's terrifying. Every bit of it.
But I just sit and do nothing about it. Not that I could either way.
These nerves don't allow it.
I wouldn't trust them. I wouldn't believe them. Their laughter would always be directed at me. They would whisper about me as soon as I left.
What an annoying little mental barrier.