(no subject)
It's frustrating that I can't just cry. That I can't just stop and scream about all the shit that's happened to me. I can't. I can get misty-eyed, but what truly needs to come out and express itself just won't. Between my brother, my dad, and Nick, I can hardly believe I even think about finding a man anymore.
Shit has happened to me that I wouldn't wish on my worse enemies, and yet I barely make noise about it. I barely even confront the fact that even though I should be happy on most days, I'm not. I can't even tell people about why I'm so socially inept, about why I can't sleep alone or with the TV off.
It's incredibly painful that Nick knows the spit of information about me that he does after how he hurt me. It shouldn't still hurt, but it does, no matter how much anger I pump into it.
So, because I never really say anything, my body suffers and takes everything. I can complain about physical aches no problem, because nobody can use my occasional inability to walk against me the way they could with my past and present issues. It's frustrating that half of me argues that everything I feel is normal, and that the other half is fighting for me to REACT and DO something, at least to SAY something.
For some reason, the half of me that says that this is normal and that there are millions of people with worse lives tops out. I wonder why that is. Probably because it's a rationalization against being egoist about one's problems--you know, "I have it worse than you and I'll PROVE it" sort of thing.
So instead I never talk about it, because if I do I'll end up fighting to seem dominant in my issues. I know this because I've done it on multiple occasions.
Truth is, I should have been put on anti-depressants and sleep pills years ago. I should have gone to intense therapy. I should have reacted. I shouldn't have sat back and accepted harrassment, molestation, and humiliation, and dealt with it by smoking excessive amounts of pot, drinking excessive amounts of Coors, and skipping school in secret three days out of the week. I should have showered at least three times in the damn'd week and brushed my hair and teeth, wash my clothes, and get USED to fucking life. When puberty hit, it seems, life went down the drain.
It's true, I could perhaps link the fact that puberty was when all my real problems began to the fact that I have PCOS--maybe the pumped up testosterone and depression caused a lot of it. Although there's so much more to it than that, and there's no excuse for how poorly I handled life. This is something everyone DOES deal with, because life is NORMAL. Everyone deals with it.
I can't believe that moving, parental divorce, and the possibility that I will lose several pets doesn't hurt more than Nick did. I'm probably just in a state of shock, is all. We'll see how I feel once I'm in a double-wide on a quarter acre with half my pets gone, working a shitty job and raising Kevin while mom works two jobs. Let's hope things don't get that desperate, eh?
Shit has happened to me that I wouldn't wish on my worse enemies, and yet I barely make noise about it. I barely even confront the fact that even though I should be happy on most days, I'm not. I can't even tell people about why I'm so socially inept, about why I can't sleep alone or with the TV off.
It's incredibly painful that Nick knows the spit of information about me that he does after how he hurt me. It shouldn't still hurt, but it does, no matter how much anger I pump into it.
So, because I never really say anything, my body suffers and takes everything. I can complain about physical aches no problem, because nobody can use my occasional inability to walk against me the way they could with my past and present issues. It's frustrating that half of me argues that everything I feel is normal, and that the other half is fighting for me to REACT and DO something, at least to SAY something.
For some reason, the half of me that says that this is normal and that there are millions of people with worse lives tops out. I wonder why that is. Probably because it's a rationalization against being egoist about one's problems--you know, "I have it worse than you and I'll PROVE it" sort of thing.
So instead I never talk about it, because if I do I'll end up fighting to seem dominant in my issues. I know this because I've done it on multiple occasions.
Truth is, I should have been put on anti-depressants and sleep pills years ago. I should have gone to intense therapy. I should have reacted. I shouldn't have sat back and accepted harrassment, molestation, and humiliation, and dealt with it by smoking excessive amounts of pot, drinking excessive amounts of Coors, and skipping school in secret three days out of the week. I should have showered at least three times in the damn'd week and brushed my hair and teeth, wash my clothes, and get USED to fucking life. When puberty hit, it seems, life went down the drain.
It's true, I could perhaps link the fact that puberty was when all my real problems began to the fact that I have PCOS--maybe the pumped up testosterone and depression caused a lot of it. Although there's so much more to it than that, and there's no excuse for how poorly I handled life. This is something everyone DOES deal with, because life is NORMAL. Everyone deals with it.
I can't believe that moving, parental divorce, and the possibility that I will lose several pets doesn't hurt more than Nick did. I'm probably just in a state of shock, is all. We'll see how I feel once I'm in a double-wide on a quarter acre with half my pets gone, working a shitty job and raising Kevin while mom works two jobs. Let's hope things don't get that desperate, eh?