venting
Yeah, so haven't written here for two years, I think almost exactly. But now I am because I need somewhere to vent and I know that no one reads this so I may as well write it here as anywhere else.
First of all, what the fuck. I put up with irresponsibility even though it's detrimental to you because I figure it's something you need to work out on your own. But when it starts affecting me, then it hurts. Because it seems like you don't care. And while it bothers me if you don't care about yourself, it's downright hurtful when you don't care about me. So I'm pissed. And angry at myself for telling you off. And right now I don't know whether to apologize or throw myself off the library roof. Or just yell at the sky and God and myself and you all at once. Getting really drunk is appealing. Or really high. Pretty much anything except what I'm feeling right now. I told myself I wouldn't let myself care. Shows how much I fail. Maybe dating you was one of those poor life decisions. Maybe it was trusting you. Maybe it was beleiving that you'd never hurt me. What a fuck up I've turned out to be. Here I am writing in an online journal because I'm too cowardly to tell you what I really think. And because I haven't prayed in over a month. I'm afraid of what I might admit to myself if I start telling God how I really feel.
I want to scream at you. And hit you and for you to hit me. I want to feel the bruising that I know should exist and would if I didn't care so much what you thought. I'd use my knife on myself if I wasn't afraid of who might see. (God, techies, roommate, whoever.) Half of me never wants to see you again. The other wants to hug you and kiss you and tell you I didn't mean any of those nasty things I said. Then there are the bits and pieces that don't really fit into either half, but do in both. The ones that tell me to hurt you, to hurt myself, to blow something up, to feel nothing at all.
If I can pour out everything I feel, and everything I might feel, and will feel, into digital print, will it be enough? Can I empty everything out by saying it, typing it, pretending that I'm screaming it at you at the top of my lungs? Would it be worth it even if I could? Would it be better to just end it all together? To really and truly not feel anything.
... Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? ...
First of all, what the fuck. I put up with irresponsibility even though it's detrimental to you because I figure it's something you need to work out on your own. But when it starts affecting me, then it hurts. Because it seems like you don't care. And while it bothers me if you don't care about yourself, it's downright hurtful when you don't care about me. So I'm pissed. And angry at myself for telling you off. And right now I don't know whether to apologize or throw myself off the library roof. Or just yell at the sky and God and myself and you all at once. Getting really drunk is appealing. Or really high. Pretty much anything except what I'm feeling right now. I told myself I wouldn't let myself care. Shows how much I fail. Maybe dating you was one of those poor life decisions. Maybe it was trusting you. Maybe it was beleiving that you'd never hurt me. What a fuck up I've turned out to be. Here I am writing in an online journal because I'm too cowardly to tell you what I really think. And because I haven't prayed in over a month. I'm afraid of what I might admit to myself if I start telling God how I really feel.
I want to scream at you. And hit you and for you to hit me. I want to feel the bruising that I know should exist and would if I didn't care so much what you thought. I'd use my knife on myself if I wasn't afraid of who might see. (God, techies, roommate, whoever.) Half of me never wants to see you again. The other wants to hug you and kiss you and tell you I didn't mean any of those nasty things I said. Then there are the bits and pieces that don't really fit into either half, but do in both. The ones that tell me to hurt you, to hurt myself, to blow something up, to feel nothing at all.
If I can pour out everything I feel, and everything I might feel, and will feel, into digital print, will it be enough? Can I empty everything out by saying it, typing it, pretending that I'm screaming it at you at the top of my lungs? Would it be worth it even if I could? Would it be better to just end it all together? To really and truly not feel anything.
... Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country, from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? ...