If only I wasn't afraid it would hurt worse than life does right now, I would have ended it all.
All that lies ahead of me is pain. I will never be loved and I will never be allowed to love. I will never be touched by another human being. I will not be able to take care of my father any better than I was able to take care of my mother and he will die to and another human life will have ended because of some innate inability to know the right thing to do to stop it.
My closest friends are sitting all around me and they are all so self absorbed that they have no idea that all I want is to die so I never have to feel pain again. Either that, or they don't care, and I find this prospect much more likely, as I have been crying for the past 6 hours and everyone around me is acting as if I do not exist.
Maybe I don't. If I didn't exist, it would explain why I can't stop the pain. Because if I am not real, then my pain is not real, and if my pain is not real, there is nothing to make it go away.
Soon, everyone around me will move on with their lives. They will find partners, they will settle down and have families, they will have jobs and responsibilities and lives that do not include me. And I, by virtue by my ugliness and my worthlessness and my inability to please anyone to the point that they want me to be a continuuing part of my life, I will be alone.
All I want is a little bit of love. Acknowledgement. I want someone to tell me that they understand that I am hurting and to help me try to stop. And none of those things are things I can have. Because I don't deserve to have anyone to touch me, love me, care for me. Why? What have I done that is so terrible? I've always tried my best to give my all to others, to be a good person. All I want is love.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
July Makes Me Wistful
Not July itself, exactly, but what comes after July, because it is in July that back-to-school ads come out, that college plans are finalized, that Wal-Mart is filled with dormitory decor in all the trendiest shapes and shades. July is summer, full of beachy days and languid nights, but it leads directly into August, heavy with anticipation of autumn, a time for winding down. Because after August, September settles in. September, despite all the talk of rebirth and hope that comes with spring, is the real month of beginnings.
I want something new on my horizon. In my memory, I spent the first five years of my life waiting--I constantly heard things like, "Just wait 'til you're in school. You'll get to read tons and tons of books and learn so many new things!" whenever I fell in love with a new story and, "This is Mrs. Salmi--she'll be your kindergarten teacher, and the two of you will have so much fun!" as I stood impatiently in line at the old Red Owl grocery store. School was constantly dangled in front of me, THE thing to wait for, THE thing to strive for, THE thing to crave. And I did crave it.
Starting the year that I turned five, every year come July I searched every store in town for the perfect pair of school shoes, the greatest first-day-of-school outfit, and even better, the best supply of fresh, empty, papery-smelling notebooks and brand new, woodsy-scented unsharpened pencils. All of my new school things were religiously hidden away in my mother's closet until the day before school began, but I searched those packages out the way most children search out hidden Christmas gifts. Every day, I held their contents in my hands, touching them, smelling them, gazing upon their beauty. They promised me hope: this was the year I would become a child prodigy, this was the year I would be the most popular girl in school, this was the year that I would achieve all my dreams.
The sense of anticipation was amplified as I approached my first day of middle school, my first day of high school, my first day at Bay College, and my first day at Northern Michigan University, which was also my first day living not in the safety of my parents' home but in my own abode. The dawn of every day of every July whispered softly to me: "Something new is coming! Something new is coming!"
After I graduated with my bachelor's degree, I began substitute teaching--something to prepare for, something to look forward to, something new. And then I started a tutoring business. And I started taking my writing more seriously--striving to win contests, publish stories, complete books. Always, there was something new. But eventually, somewhere along the way, all of that became old hat.
So as the special advertising sections of the newspapers pile up in my recycle bin and parents begin to stock up on stiff jeans and bright, cartoony lunchboxes, as teens apply for after school jobs and start filling out shiny new planners with newly bought ink pens, as recent high school grads begin leaving their parents' homes and settling into cinder block dormitories like the one I used to inhabit, I am sad.
I want something new to plan for, something new to fill my time, my hopes, my dreams. Something new to aspire to. I want July to, once again, lead me into a new beginning.
I want something new on my horizon. In my memory, I spent the first five years of my life waiting--I constantly heard things like, "Just wait 'til you're in school. You'll get to read tons and tons of books and learn so many new things!" whenever I fell in love with a new story and, "This is Mrs. Salmi--she'll be your kindergarten teacher, and the two of you will have so much fun!" as I stood impatiently in line at the old Red Owl grocery store. School was constantly dangled in front of me, THE thing to wait for, THE thing to strive for, THE thing to crave. And I did crave it.
Starting the year that I turned five, every year come July I searched every store in town for the perfect pair of school shoes, the greatest first-day-of-school outfit, and even better, the best supply of fresh, empty, papery-smelling notebooks and brand new, woodsy-scented unsharpened pencils. All of my new school things were religiously hidden away in my mother's closet until the day before school began, but I searched those packages out the way most children search out hidden Christmas gifts. Every day, I held their contents in my hands, touching them, smelling them, gazing upon their beauty. They promised me hope: this was the year I would become a child prodigy, this was the year I would be the most popular girl in school, this was the year that I would achieve all my dreams.
The sense of anticipation was amplified as I approached my first day of middle school, my first day of high school, my first day at Bay College, and my first day at Northern Michigan University, which was also my first day living not in the safety of my parents' home but in my own abode. The dawn of every day of every July whispered softly to me: "Something new is coming! Something new is coming!"
After I graduated with my bachelor's degree, I began substitute teaching--something to prepare for, something to look forward to, something new. And then I started a tutoring business. And I started taking my writing more seriously--striving to win contests, publish stories, complete books. Always, there was something new. But eventually, somewhere along the way, all of that became old hat.
So as the special advertising sections of the newspapers pile up in my recycle bin and parents begin to stock up on stiff jeans and bright, cartoony lunchboxes, as teens apply for after school jobs and start filling out shiny new planners with newly bought ink pens, as recent high school grads begin leaving their parents' homes and settling into cinder block dormitories like the one I used to inhabit, I am sad.
I want something new to plan for, something new to fill my time, my hopes, my dreams. Something new to aspire to. I want July to, once again, lead me into a new beginning.
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