(no subject)
You know... Life can be pretty strange at times.
I don't feel the urge to post often or frequently about my life lately because, well, my life is good. I don't feel the need to justify it with proclamations of love or emotions. It's my life, I'm content with it.
But still I feel an urge to write. What about? The past. I need to maintain a strict focus on what happened, lest I let myself fold into bad habits and letting myself be abused again.
It goes through stages. I feel remorse for how things happened. I feel the need to heal rifts. But then I remember. I remember all of it. I remember having noone support me, and five pairs of hands pushing me down. I remember carrying the weight of emotionally dead corpses, dragging them along as they complain at how long I'm taking.
Then I get mad. And I should get mad. Why should anyone get over it? What happened to me? The lengths I went to to make sure everyone else was taken care of when -I- was the one being fucked over? What in the fuck do I owe anyone anymore? I don't.
But then can't I be nice? Sure, sometimes. But it doesn't help when I know the things that were done to me, will always be done. Noone understands how they fucked me. They say they do, they might even feel bad now and then. But they don't know what it was like, burning my heart out of my chest for three months... doing things I find repulsive... all in attempts to free myself from the pain that was inflicted upon me.
Maybe, maybe if I wasn't always the one working to make friends again. Maybe if someone else tried and worked at it to make me happy again. Maybe then I can be nice. Maybe not, but at least I would know they tried.
It was all so long and so far away. I am happy now, but I'll always be a little pissed off. Then again, I forgave Glyndon. At this point noone can hurt me. Noone can demand or ask of me anything. I am free, utterly and wholly. I tried until I bled to keep things happy, to maintain a friendship. Some people are just too selfish to be bothered.
Kinda sad. Oh well, fuck gutter-trash hippies anyway.
I don't feel the urge to post often or frequently about my life lately because, well, my life is good. I don't feel the need to justify it with proclamations of love or emotions. It's my life, I'm content with it.
But still I feel an urge to write. What about? The past. I need to maintain a strict focus on what happened, lest I let myself fold into bad habits and letting myself be abused again.
It goes through stages. I feel remorse for how things happened. I feel the need to heal rifts. But then I remember. I remember all of it. I remember having noone support me, and five pairs of hands pushing me down. I remember carrying the weight of emotionally dead corpses, dragging them along as they complain at how long I'm taking.
Then I get mad. And I should get mad. Why should anyone get over it? What happened to me? The lengths I went to to make sure everyone else was taken care of when -I- was the one being fucked over? What in the fuck do I owe anyone anymore? I don't.
But then can't I be nice? Sure, sometimes. But it doesn't help when I know the things that were done to me, will always be done. Noone understands how they fucked me. They say they do, they might even feel bad now and then. But they don't know what it was like, burning my heart out of my chest for three months... doing things I find repulsive... all in attempts to free myself from the pain that was inflicted upon me.
Maybe, maybe if I wasn't always the one working to make friends again. Maybe if someone else tried and worked at it to make me happy again. Maybe then I can be nice. Maybe not, but at least I would know they tried.
It was all so long and so far away. I am happy now, but I'll always be a little pissed off. Then again, I forgave Glyndon. At this point noone can hurt me. Noone can demand or ask of me anything. I am free, utterly and wholly. I tried until I bled to keep things happy, to maintain a friendship. Some people are just too selfish to be bothered.
Kinda sad. Oh well, fuck gutter-trash hippies anyway.