The past two weeks have been hell.  The past maybe year, has been pretty fucking bad.  The past 8 years have been difficult.  But, to avoid conflict, I eat it.  For peace, love, and household harmony, I sacrifice a very important part of myself, and it happens so often, so consistently, on the surface, I barely even notice it anymore.  Something huge, and dark seems passe.  It's amazing what we can get used to, as human beings.  But when I take inventory, when I spend a rare quiet moment in my life, in introspection, my thoughts turn so dark, that I quickly shove it down, bottle it up, and make it go away.  I thought I was just immune to things.  It all crashed home.  I realize that this thing, this thing I can't mention, that affects every level of my self, from my basic comfort level in my own home, to challenging the very person I think I am, or, as of last night, that I thought I was.  It's stripped away all that I am, everything.  From stupid possessions that I feel like I "own" because on paper, I've worked for, and paid for these meaningless things, to the most important part of me, that I thought I really did own, my actual literal body.  My soul.  Everything.  Nothing is mine. Nothing us under my own power.  I have been manipulated, and used, pushed, pulled, and coerced so much, that it's become what I think of as normal.

 I've been steadily drawing inward, over the years.  I look back, and think "I didn't used to hate people.  I didn't used to shrink away from human interaction" and...now I do.  All humans, all the time.  Even people I love with all my heart.  I can't talk.  I can't open myself.  I don't like to be touched anymore, I barely tolerate hugs.  I don't like to have people near me, or leaning over me.  Even in the most mundane situations.  This is not something I talk about, much, but I self medicate. Heavily.  I drug myself into sleep every night with large amounts benadryl or nyquil.  I take Xanax, or smoke a LOT of pot just to make it through the day.  Just to make sure I don't feel.  To make sure, that when I lay down to sleep, I don't spend hours awake hating myself, for what my life has become.   There's no real joy in anything.  I've quit painting, writing, creating.  Music, aside from a few very tremendous moments, is just there, and doesn't offer the comfort and happiness it used to.  I read for escape.  I've been cycling through a few very comforting books that completely take me out of my own head.  I can't even read anything else, because unless it offers full escape, I can't.  Reading tarot cards for people is one of my last outlets, and I can't even do that properly, because I need to open myself fully to the cards, emotionally, and they all turn into bullshit fake images.  Because I, myself, have become that.


I have been faking it.  For years.  I envision myself as a strong, empowered woman, who takes no shit and gets things done.  Everyone turns to me, at some point, for advice, or just to listen, or just do what I do, which is listen, and love, and feel compassion, and help.  I mean, that's my fucking job.  That's not fake, I still love, and I still feel compassion, but I realize how very close that is to dying too.  Where the fuck to I get off?  How dare I?  I've been lying to myself for years.  Lying to everyone.  The real me is this fucking mess, this weepy, insane, barely-holding-it-together, sometimes suicidal, delusional, insecure, fragmented amorphous ball of nothing hiding in a corner, cringing away from everything.  I say one thing, about self power, and having control over one's self, and yet I let things go as far as they have. I didn't start out this way.

I had this dawning last night, about this whole thing.  I shrink away from people, I hide, because it causes me deep...pain?  I don't know, I can't even find the words. It compromises every bit of me to continue faking it and lying to myself, and to be fake around everyone else.  I can't keep up the facade, and I'm starting to crumble around the edges.  This thing, that I can't really even talk about.  I can't write it down. I can't quite bring myself to really face it down yet.  This fucking thing, I discovered is the heart of all of it.  Not the house.  Not the stresses that people can see, all that shit means nothing to me, or it's not so bad as I make it out.  Honestly?  There is nothing really wrong with my life, but this one thing, and it is somehow everything that's wrong.  I woke up with tears in my eyes, and I haven't stopped crying. I know why, but I can't find the words, to help people understand.  I don't know if anyone really gets it.