I’ve been sitting here staring at the screen for quite a while now. Can’t let the bubbles win again. (screen saver) Tho, they might. Writing shouldn’t feel like pulling teeth, it used to come so effortlessly. I think my brain is constipated. Yes, my brain is constipated and my vacuum broke, well, I think it did anyway. It smells like it did. Now I am afraid of it. I’m sitting here one sweaty bitch musing over what I didn’t get to vacuum and I am not happy about it. I’m also fighting the fear that the damn thing is going to explode. It’s not. But I can’t stop the irrationality. Well, if it does, it won’t make too much of a mess because I emptied it before I banished it to the corner. And it’s going to stay there until I feel like dealing with it. At least it’s almost dark. Not really, but close enough for now.
Darkness always makes us feel better. Too bad it’s not dark yet. The dark, it’s oddly soothing. Like a blanket wrapping around us wiping away the harsh light of day. I want to run out into it and let it engulf me. Let it keep me, swallow me. Become one with it. Stay in it forever and ever. Allow it to bury me alive.
The darkness is inside me. Eating me up. And I’m welcoming it. Unintentionally letting it in. Allowing it to fill the brokeness in me. The brokenness that no one else can see. The brokenness that is always there, that has always been there and always will be. There is nothing else I know. The dark place. The place where no one else wants to go. It’s in my eyes, way down deep. Deeper than anyone could go. But us. We can go there. We can only exist there. It’s all we know. It’s what we were given. The darkness was programmed into us as far back as we can remember. Shoved down our throat until we learned to… to what? Just what did we learn? We learned that there was something unlovable about us. Something defective that nothing and no one could ever fix. No one even wanted to. We were broken. Others were taught to treat us as the broken thing we were. Unaccepted. Unwanted. Worthless. Nothing.
I’m so lost in the dark that I don’t even know who we are anymore. Is it even worth finding out? Is there anything to find? Are we to lost to be found? Are we even worth finding? There may be nothing there. Maybe there was always nothing. Just a shell. An empty rotting shell. An empty rotting shell that everyone can see… but me. We don’t want to see it.
We need to shove our head into the putrid pool of reality, just like we were taught to as a young child. I’m going under, drowning. Just the way they want. It’s a war we’re unable to win. Hmmm and do we even want to anymore? Is it worth it? Is there sanity at the end? Me thinks not. Sanity is not something we were gifted with. It will always be labeled unobtanium.
It’s dark now. We feel better. Not really but maybe we can fake it. We always have to fake it. Keep the mask on. Don’t let it slip. No one could bear to see what’s underneath it. We can’t bear to see what’s under it. What if there is nothing there? Just a nasty little girl used and abused. So rotted that no one cared that she wanted to end the pain. Just down the hall, writhing in and out of consciousness from an overdose while the mother was baking a pistachio cake. Wearing long sleeves in the summer to hide a cut wrist brought not one question. However, Kiki plucked our eyebrows and we caught hell. You would have thought we robbed a bank.
It’s ok, nothing matters anymore. Well, there are a few things that matter. A precious few. We hold on to those. They make the journey bearable.