that's all, folks

[prismaticbleed]

 

I hate being at home.
I've found that I only ever feel safe and comfortable when I am treated like a total stranger, like I "don't belong."
It's why I loved the 24-hour airplane trip to SLC better than I did the entire stay there. On the plane, and in those airports, I didn't belong. I wasn't supposed to stay, I wasn't even allowed to. I was shut out, limited, and treated as just someone passing through. And I loved it.

 

When I visit others and they tell me "make yourself at home," I don't know what to do. I panic. Because I know all too well that, if I did feel "at home," I would start destroying things. I would start damaging both myself and my environment as much as possible. Why?
Because, having "a home" insinuates that my "individuality" is sufficient enough to merit one. And I loathe my 'self' so damn much that I'd rather be treated as a specter than a person-- not as something to be ignored, but as something that isn't even perceived. The sickest part is that I enjoy it.

I want to move out, and I have for years, but I've finally discovered that the problem is I don't want to move in anywhere. I want to walk out the door and forever be cut off from a "place that I 'belong'" because that very concept makes me feel utterly unsafe.

 

Daily routine is closely tied to this. Anything that brings attention to myself as a person, rather than an idea or mirage, can potentially send me instantaneously into a self-hating suicidal meltdown. Talking and eating are the most dangerous activities in this respect, as both are frequently followed by self-abusive episodes nowadays.
I still want to live as a ghost, so to speak. I want to either sleep all day, or spend my waking hours in a semi-conscious state, unmoving, silent, experiencing everything in third person, with no one calling attention to me.
So yes, I still pray every night for nonexistence.

 

 

Boss wouldn't let me annihilate myself on the 24th like I wanted to. I tried again, and failed again.
I'm feebly chopping away at the timeline every chance I get, but the steady unraveling of sense and stability has currently reduced me into a malignant maniac, unable to function in the physical realm without posing a significant threat to those around me.
But there is one very, very big difference this time.
Somewhere far beneath the surface, hiding below my undying death wish, there is a will to live... a will to live invisibly.
I'm tired of having a name. I'm tired of having a body and a face and a family. Some days I outright hate it, and go to extremes just to undermine or eradicate whatever I can.
And I am always, always tired.

 

 

I feel inherently flawed, now. I feel as if my very existence is damned, irredeemable, unworthy of continuing. I know things are changing for the better in the world, but when I look at how rapidly I have been deteriorating, all I see is evidence that I am preventing that progress for others. All I see is a bloody obstacle that needs to be removed for the sake of everyone else.
They were right; I am selfish, manipulative, destructive, blind, and a burden to all I meet. You have every right to be angry with me, for what a bastard I've been. I wouldn't expect any less.

I keep looking back on what I did, and perhaps they were right all along. Maybe I'm not supposed to be anything but the villain of this story. If that is the end I always come to, perhaps it is the only end a blackheart like me deserves.
How ironic, that all the dark and tar-stained shadows I tried so desperately to tear from my life forever turned out to be the truest things about me.
I don't save the day, I don't fly off into the sunset, I don't get the girl.
And the only home I've ever known is a prison.

 

"They can drag me by the nose to the top of the world and tell me that there's been a mistake and I got someone else's fate, they can forgive me because deep down inside I'm a really terrific person, and they can write it all down and put it in drawers in hotel rooms, but the fact is I don't care.
I lived my life and I made some really bad decisions and I showed everybody what kind of person I was. I screwed up. I took the easy way and I picked up a gun and I got used to it and I deserved everything I got. Sorry if that sounds selfish.

 

There was another theme to those old war programs-- you don't forget the horrors you see. And I remember everything. I'm not supposed to, but I can't-- I won't-- forget the things I've done and the people I've hurt and the kind of person I really am. The kind of person who's way beyond second chances.
There is no hell, I was right about that. There's just the places we end up. And that's where I belong."