backlash

[prismaticbleed]

I feel horrible. My mum just came home, upset and hopeless after yet another major fight with her boyfriend, so she can't stay the night at his place. According to her, she is "sick of always fighting" with him-- something I wasn't even aware was going on. However, she can't stay here for the night either, because my grandmother moved all her stuff out and gave ME her room.
That's awful! I don't deserve any of this, she does. Why am I the one being taken care of here? Why can't I be the one in pain instead?
Just... this is yet another reason why I blame myself for getting thrown out of SLC. Even though I've purged that experience from my memory, I do know that if I hadn't left there-- if my family hadn't insisted on bringing me home so I'd have food and transportation (or so they said when I asked why), two things I really don't care about anyway-- and if I hadn't screwed everything over with the two people I had been staying with, maybe I could have stayed. Then my mom could move back in here, and have a place to sleep at night. But then I'd just continue to be a burden on two other people, a fact I was well aware of from the day I first set foot in that strange western state.
I remember living with my father, back in 2010, during my last "psychological hell" time period like this. He was never home either. The one time he was, that I remember, was the night I was so depressed and sick that I couldn't eat, and he shouted at me for it. It scared me so much, I was willing to eat garbage if it would make him stop.

I still want to move out, to be by myself, once again just like I did back in 2010. Still, there are several pressing problems keeping me from doing so: 1. Rent isn't cheap. I need a steady income before I can afford even the shoddiest two-room apartment in town here, and there aren't many jobs available, let alone any that aren't part-time minimum wage puppy mill positions. 2. If I did land an apartment of my own, I know for a fact that I wouldn't eat. I wouldn't spend a penny on food. 3. I have no connections outside of my immediate family anymore, and even they are fading away either from age or apathy. Not that it matters; it's just that as long as I am still afraid to give up and live on the streets, I'm going to be stuck grasping at straws for support.
Truly, I don't even want a home. You remember I said that I hate homes. I despise places where I "belong," or am allowed to do so. They feel completely unsafe and stagnant. I want to live somewhere where I'm being "tolerated," somewhere I need to follow everyone else's strict rules, where I am treated as a stranger that cannot and will not stay for an indefinite period of time.
I want to travel. I want to move. I want to house-hop if at all possible. I want to live on the road; I want to live in hotel rooms and park benches and the backseats of cars. I don't know why. It's always been a morbidly secret dream of mine, though... to be the "invisible man," the wandering soul, who doesn't have a place to call his own, because the whole world is his home.
One day, I'm just going to throw caution to the wind and start walking. The only thing keeping me from doing so is a stupidly ironic fear of death. I know, far too well, that I'd invite him in sooner than I'd try to survive. Some selfish part of me isn't that hopeless, not yet.
Secretly, I wish it were.


Today was Divine Mercy Sunday. I went to mass and floundered through a vague confession because I didn't know how to tell the priest how many sins were on my soul. It scared me to death, looking at my conscience, and seeing nothing but black. In the past few months alone, I've done so many things I'd swore I'd never do... I've broken so many promises, destroyed so many trusts and friendships, destroyed so much of myself. I've been wrecking my life without a care for longer than I can remember. And today, when it was time to 'fess up, I was legitimately frightened at just how far I'd fallen.
It was a self-fulfilling prophecy. I hate to admit it, but when I was told that I was just that bad of a person, it was the last straw. It was the breaking point. And since then, for the most part, I've just stopped caring. I resigned myself to being the bad guy, the villain, the antihero. If I really was selfish and cruel and unfeeling and destructive, even after years of trying not to be, then so be it. If that was all I was, deep down under the surface, then why keep fighting it? And although my boss and moirail and daughter all keep insisting that that mindset of mine is utter rubbish, I still believe it. Even if it's 100% false, right now, I can't see that.
How did I fall this far? What's happened to me? Who am I, really?
The answer: nothing. I am nothing. I need to stop trying to be something.

They say that today, all your sins can be forgiven.
I'd better not screw this up.