My temple lies in ruins, and I, Adrian, am banished.......
Not much new here. Just the usual dumb emo stuff. (Duh)
I've been thinking alot lately, about what's happened to me. I've told four people the truth, and, bless them, they've all been good about it. But something's been gnawing at me like maggots on a dead rat. When I think about each of them, it doesn't feel right. I mean, their reaction was not what I was expecting. Which is definitely a wonderful thing, but it's like some part of me is dissapointed. Well, that's not the right word for it, but it's the only one that's close.
Does my subconsious want me to be hurt?
That would make sense, I suppose. Because my waking mind isn't exactly okay with the truth either. I think they both agree that no matter what, that's the way I am. There's no doubt whatsoever there, but that doesn't mean that they,(I), am onboard with it.
Let's see, how many years have I spent repressing any and all sexual urges? I can't pinpoint it for sure, but I believe it started around fifth grade or so. Whenever the slightest unnatural thought appeared in my head, I shut back out again with something else. It worked quite well for four years, and eventually I stopped having those thoughts altogether for awhile. So when I told people I was a non-sexual, it was true up until sophmore year.
God, that was hell. My mind was waging war with my body, and it was a bloody battle with many casualties, including my childhood. I cried myself to sleep at least three times a week, silently, so my mother would remain in the dark, where my innocence now dwells. And during the day it was just as bad, if not horribly worse. At least when I was sleeping I could go far away from my own troubles, and live in my childhood world of fantasy. My mother always wondered why I was so especially cranky in the morning. Her shrill voice was the foghorn that shattered my dreams, and dragged me back to this awful place.
When I replayed the day over again to myself at night, I could see my acting skills were getting steadily worse, and they still are to this day. TJ himself told me that I didn't do a very good job at hiding it. But there was nothing I could do about it, and that, the sheer futility of it all, was what made tears flow like rivers from my face.
Whenever I see a scene in a horror movie where the person just kind of stands there and lets the killer get them, I'm very frustrated. My philosophy is this: Run or fight. If a murderer ever got into my house, I'd either fight to the bitter end, kicking him even as he stabs me through the heart, or run out the opposite door to the neighbors and scream like a banshee.
But in this situation there was no fighting back. Believe me, I've tried. So I chose the former option, to flee as best I could from myself, refuse to acknowledge the simplicity of the truth. But my legs were getting tired, and I tripped over Fate's extended foot, and fell into this abyss of swirling agony.
I almost killed myself once. I had it all planned out: I'd take out every pill in the hall closet, which have labels that specifically say not to take after a certain date, and wash them all down with vodka. I even picked the day I would do it on. All I had left to do were the farewell letters. I had intended to write everyone I knew a personal letter saying goodbye and hopefully providing closure for them. But as the date approached, I just couldn't do it. I couldn't write it down, put it into words for all to read.
The date came. I went to school, cheerful as ever, didn't let on a thing. I came home, and sat on the couch, and turned on the TV. My mother arrived, changed her clothes, and told me she would be at Sportsman's for a little while. I said okay, and she left. I waited until the sun went down, and then went to the closet. I opened it, took out the capsules of pills, and heard the back door open. Hurriedly I put them back, and rushed back to the couch, looking as inconspicuous as possible. It was my mother again, saying she'd changed her mind and would be staying home for the evening.
After that I didn't know what to feel. Sure, the part of me that was, and still is, full of grief was devastated. But the other half.....it began to suspect that perhaps accepting the truth wouldn't be such a bad thing. That night I simply stared off into the void of my room until morning came. I haven't attempted again since.
And now that half of my mind has accepted it, the other half is stunned. It's like a little child that has bolted himself in a room with no windows, and refuses to come out for anything in the world. I don't think there's much I can do about it however, not now at least. I don't know what it will take, but I feel certain that there is some event that can blast open that door; but when and if it will come at all is another matter.
If that's not bad enough, the half that is hopeful for the future, the one that contains all my hopes for the better, is further divided against itself. Ever since the dream, I can't stop thinking about Ray. That feeling when we were together,I..I have to find out what it was. Am I in love with a man that doesn't exist? Or worse, am I in love with a man that exists, but is forever separated from me by the boundaries of dimension? Is it love at all? Am I capable of love? Do I deserve it?
Again, futility is the winner. There is no way to tell for certain whether it was some kind of other worldly experience, or merely the desires of my own pathetic subconscious. Either way, I'll never forget you, Ray.
~Adrian
I've been thinking alot lately, about what's happened to me. I've told four people the truth, and, bless them, they've all been good about it. But something's been gnawing at me like maggots on a dead rat. When I think about each of them, it doesn't feel right. I mean, their reaction was not what I was expecting. Which is definitely a wonderful thing, but it's like some part of me is dissapointed. Well, that's not the right word for it, but it's the only one that's close.
Does my subconsious want me to be hurt?
That would make sense, I suppose. Because my waking mind isn't exactly okay with the truth either. I think they both agree that no matter what, that's the way I am. There's no doubt whatsoever there, but that doesn't mean that they,(I), am onboard with it.
Let's see, how many years have I spent repressing any and all sexual urges? I can't pinpoint it for sure, but I believe it started around fifth grade or so. Whenever the slightest unnatural thought appeared in my head, I shut back out again with something else. It worked quite well for four years, and eventually I stopped having those thoughts altogether for awhile. So when I told people I was a non-sexual, it was true up until sophmore year.
God, that was hell. My mind was waging war with my body, and it was a bloody battle with many casualties, including my childhood. I cried myself to sleep at least three times a week, silently, so my mother would remain in the dark, where my innocence now dwells. And during the day it was just as bad, if not horribly worse. At least when I was sleeping I could go far away from my own troubles, and live in my childhood world of fantasy. My mother always wondered why I was so especially cranky in the morning. Her shrill voice was the foghorn that shattered my dreams, and dragged me back to this awful place.
When I replayed the day over again to myself at night, I could see my acting skills were getting steadily worse, and they still are to this day. TJ himself told me that I didn't do a very good job at hiding it. But there was nothing I could do about it, and that, the sheer futility of it all, was what made tears flow like rivers from my face.
Whenever I see a scene in a horror movie where the person just kind of stands there and lets the killer get them, I'm very frustrated. My philosophy is this: Run or fight. If a murderer ever got into my house, I'd either fight to the bitter end, kicking him even as he stabs me through the heart, or run out the opposite door to the neighbors and scream like a banshee.
But in this situation there was no fighting back. Believe me, I've tried. So I chose the former option, to flee as best I could from myself, refuse to acknowledge the simplicity of the truth. But my legs were getting tired, and I tripped over Fate's extended foot, and fell into this abyss of swirling agony.
I almost killed myself once. I had it all planned out: I'd take out every pill in the hall closet, which have labels that specifically say not to take after a certain date, and wash them all down with vodka. I even picked the day I would do it on. All I had left to do were the farewell letters. I had intended to write everyone I knew a personal letter saying goodbye and hopefully providing closure for them. But as the date approached, I just couldn't do it. I couldn't write it down, put it into words for all to read.
The date came. I went to school, cheerful as ever, didn't let on a thing. I came home, and sat on the couch, and turned on the TV. My mother arrived, changed her clothes, and told me she would be at Sportsman's for a little while. I said okay, and she left. I waited until the sun went down, and then went to the closet. I opened it, took out the capsules of pills, and heard the back door open. Hurriedly I put them back, and rushed back to the couch, looking as inconspicuous as possible. It was my mother again, saying she'd changed her mind and would be staying home for the evening.
After that I didn't know what to feel. Sure, the part of me that was, and still is, full of grief was devastated. But the other half.....it began to suspect that perhaps accepting the truth wouldn't be such a bad thing. That night I simply stared off into the void of my room until morning came. I haven't attempted again since.
And now that half of my mind has accepted it, the other half is stunned. It's like a little child that has bolted himself in a room with no windows, and refuses to come out for anything in the world. I don't think there's much I can do about it however, not now at least. I don't know what it will take, but I feel certain that there is some event that can blast open that door; but when and if it will come at all is another matter.
If that's not bad enough, the half that is hopeful for the future, the one that contains all my hopes for the better, is further divided against itself. Ever since the dream, I can't stop thinking about Ray. That feeling when we were together,I..I have to find out what it was. Am I in love with a man that doesn't exist? Or worse, am I in love with a man that exists, but is forever separated from me by the boundaries of dimension? Is it love at all? Am I capable of love? Do I deserve it?
Again, futility is the winner. There is no way to tell for certain whether it was some kind of other worldly experience, or merely the desires of my own pathetic subconscious. Either way, I'll never forget you, Ray.
~Adrian