DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Jun 30, 2009 17:06:22 GMT -5
*WARNING! THE CONTENT OF THIS THREAD INCLUDES COARSE LANGUAGE, SEXUALITY, VIOLENCE, AND OTHER MATERIAL THAT MAY NOT BE SUITABLE FOR YOUNGER READERS OR THOSE WHO ARE MORE SENSITIVE. READER DISCRETION IS STRONGLY ADVISED. *
I woke up today very groggily. That's what happens when you feel sick and decide to eat Gravol before going to bed, you get knocked out and it's hard to do anything else.
Work sucked. I packed condoms into boxes and got cut at least three times by the cardboard. A pretty little slice on my left arm, on the inside by my wrist. Accidental (come on, I'm at work!) but still such a fucking tease. The best part is that I'm holding an exacto knife, you know, one of those razor blade box cutters with snap-offable sections along the knife. Another fucking tease. No, wait. The really best part is actually when my boss goes by, back to me with neck exposed. MANUAL OVERRIDE. Slide the blade back into it's casing, slowly put it back on the table, go away and fold boxes.
I'm at the bus stop, waiting for the bus. The guy beside me has a zippo lighter. The metal casing opens and shuts. Clicks and unclicks. I wonder if he's waiting for a cigarette or just anticipating starting the next inferno.
I get home. My brain is crushing me so tight now, so tight. Nothing can make sense. I can't breathe and all there is is pressure. My face is wet and I try to think of logic. Come on now, what do I want? Death! What does it look like? An image flashes. How can you describe it? The image flashes again, then, haltingly, Sunset words Explosion form. ...and I am gray, black and violet. I'm concentrating. Maybe when I'm done I'll be able to breathe. Trees and grass... It catches the whole passageway down but the air gets there eventually. What is this? The crushing is intense, but it's letting go. Bliss. This is my death, which as far as I can tell must be synonymous with heaven. So what is the problem with it? I have no one to share my death with.
I shower and walk downtown, to this bridge I like. I take my box of crayons and write my name is colours. I know how the beauty of crayons on cement works. The wax melts in the sunshine and seeps between the gritty texture of the pavement or sidewalk. The oils stick and latch on, then are baked in. They don't go away for a very long time. Two years and counting. The colours go funny though, especially if they are not analogous. If you go over something in turns with several different colours, let's say yellow, red and blue, they will melt together and turn gritty and brown or dark gray. But if you use blue and green, although the colours still change, they at least maintain a resemblance, an echo of what they were.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Jul 10, 2009 13:00:09 GMT -5
So how am I to believe in anything anymore?
I try to keep it simple these days; go to work, procrastinate thinking about school and my future, and have one vague long-term permanent goal: find what I'm looking for. No idea yet what that may be, by the way. But sitting on a giant rock at the edge of mourning waters of what might as well be the sea, I'm feeling like I've already lost what I've barely found.
The sunset should be happening within the next half hour, but a solid wall of gray is floating across, blocking out colour from the North West.
It's funny, I can see all three cloud types at once. The bottom-heavy ones in thick horizontal ropes of blue, purple, and gray; the small round puffs in the sky are fluffy white, tinged darker around their bottom edges; and then the thin long stratospheric streaks, those are my favourite. The sunlight shoots through those for the longest time.
The storm wall is closer, it easily swallows nearly half of my horizon to the North West, hanging right over the water. It's getting a bit chilly, even through my thick sweater; and my beer, my last one, will soon be gone.
I look out at the water. As I said, it seems to be mourning, the waves are crying against the beach. But neither this rock or the sand can console it any better than I could.
I look out across the water, straight and to the left a little and I can see the split where the solid line of clouds meet the retreating clear sky, reflected completely in the cold jello dips of moving water, smooth waves. On the bottom half of the horizon, the lake half, is a line of navy blue. Directly below the navy blue line is the beginning of a medium toned blue gradation. But I see the solid lines and think, how funny.
This place doesn't care what I've lost, what I have to lose, what I will lose. As far as it is concerned I'm already dead. The melancholy repetition of the waves tells me so. I can sit here and never return.
Until I notice then that the storm is directly above me.
If I look to the East, the little puffy clouds have grouped together, are splashed with pink and purple from the light that jumps over the storm above my head. The stratospheric clouds are perfect, rose light glowing against blue nothingness.
If I was dead in that sky with the nothingness I had never found, it would never have mattered that I'd been ripped open during this storm.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Sept 28, 2009 16:12:49 GMT -5
Dear Diary,
Today I saw an old woman on the bus wearing a tie-dyed t-shirt. It was awesome.
I lurch my way across the tiles, cool dirty stone against the sweating skin of my feet. I drop to my knees in front of the toilet. A long string of saliva leaks down, blood dripping from bodies of the dead. Here comes the shivering as I feel heat in my esophagus. For half a moment I feel like laughing at myself, then I cough. Now I can't breathe, my throat has closed off, the heat is acid moving up with harsh consequences. My body can't stand the abuse, reacts automatically. I retch. I cough. I retch again. The heat is everywhere now; I've broken out in cold sweat and I can feel my face water and melt. I know my eyes must be red and small, half-lidded. The retching is over, I clutch the porcelain- ripe with condensation, I'm not the only one who sweats tonight- as I try to breathe, regain the calm rhythm. My head clears, I become aware of the little things again. I clear my throat and spit. Spit again. Take a tissue, clean myself up. I slowly stand, still a bit bent at the waist. I slowly stand more, look into the mirror. Blurred and wet as my face seems, there I am.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Nov 7, 2009 10:19:57 GMT -5
Last night i was standing on a high embankment over train tracks. Notoriously busy ones. All I could think about was falling face first onto the rails, splitting open my skull, painting iron with gore.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Nov 27, 2009 15:13:26 GMT -5
Dear Diary,
Today I saw an old hobbly man walking down the street wearing a fluorescent orange winter jacket. He smiled at me. It made me smile.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Nov 27, 2009 19:14:49 GMT -5
Shadows pooling against soft pale peach curvature reminded Ryan of the moon. The round dip in Star's side was the circling lip of a crater. Her skin looked so smooth, yet Ryan could see tiny goosebumps across her exposed body. He touched her arm; cold. Star sighed in her sleep. Ryan concluded she had probably been too hot, kicked off the sheets that he himself was still under.
The window was open, slid up halfway, allowing thin light into the room. In this low light Ryan's vision became monochromatic. Star's took on a gray blue-screen sheen, like the lighting in a horror film. They were at Star's place tonight, testing her new mattress. She hadn't stirred once since falling asleep two and a half hours ago, after they'd made pseudo-love. She had been drunk and he had been high. But now she was asleep and his head had cleared back to sobriety.
Ryan couldn't sleep. He crept out of bed and went to the window. Nothing moved outside. The street scape glowed pink and orange under the lamp posts, black green grass hung on to the ground in dark geometric shapes. Something caught his eye, a cat darting from behind a parked car; Star's cat. It looked up at the second story window, at Ryan looking down at it.
Why are you here? It was asking.
Even the cat knew what was going on. Ryan didn't love Star, and Star wanted to love Ryan, but couldn't. They remained with each other out of empty hope. Hope that maybe they'd wake up and finally start caring. Hope that if they kept having sex it would make them fall in love.
The cat turned and walked away from Ryan and the window; across the street and lost to the night.
Star looked up at Ryan from the bed. His back was to her as he watched the silence outside. He hadn't noticed she'd woken up. For a moment she wondered what he was thinking about, then realized it didn't really matter. She didn't love him and he wasn't trying anyway. Star stretched and turned over onto her back, and realized she was cold, realized she wanted to screw Ryan at least once more before morning. But she always wanted it so much more than he did. Star felt like some peer-pressuring asshole for it, and hoped when Ryan did it it was because he wanted to, not because he felt obligated. She couldn't feel guilty though, Ryan always had a choice.
Ryan turned and looked at her, lying naked on the bed. Star felt the sudden urge to cover up, but instead chose not to move. Ryan met her eyes, and they just stared at each other. Unable to speak. Unable to love.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Jan 14, 2010 20:13:42 GMT -5
"You're so hot," this guy slurs as he drapes his drunken form over me. I am unmoved, but quite intoxicated myself. "Thanks" I reply. This happens so often, it doesn't matter where I am; at a bar, a house party, fully-clothed pictures of me on the inter web, someone always wants to tell me I'm beautiful. It doesn't much bother me, it simply isolates me. After hearing it so often, I know it's not really even me these people are looking at. So I'd rather be alone.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Feb 25, 2010 15:03:56 GMT -5
I'm sitting in stagnation. I've been considering picking up a second job. The first one just isn't cutting it, and I have things to do and time to fill.
I feel like I have mislead people. Either by my actions themselves, or my attempts to explain things. But I'm not sure if it matters much. People will never understand anyway. They will see and hear what they want to.
At least the psychosis has stopped bothering me. We'll see how long that one lasts.
I don't function quite how I used to. It's a tad concerning, but at the same time just gives way to numbness. I really need to go somewhere where I can be outrageous but have complete acceptance. I need to get out of here for even a few hours.
On the other hand though, all this numbness and isolation is in a way good for me, as are those who look at me but do not see me. This isolation lends a better perception of what might matter. Of what people might be real, of who might actually have substance in my little melodrama. I also feel like it let's me see people clearer. Call it an amateur social scientist point of view. The wallflower who is also the main character.
I go for walks at night. The past three nights in a row. The snow gives my thighs a challenge. It feels good. There is something perfect about winter nights. They're silent but they demand a response; the sound of my boots crunching though deep snow. Wallowing in something we have not yet completely marred. It paints over everything, a fresh canvas, we do not feel so dirty.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Mar 3, 2010 1:54:25 GMT -5
Last night I was sitting in bed, leaning against the oak headboard with my pillow cushioning my back. I was playing an album by The Cure, with green Christmas lights illuminating the pages of Lost Souls. Due to the contrast created by the green lights, everything on the other side of my windows was in shades of spooky violet. Out the top window, the small triangular molding framed the full moon, safely nestled in it's own bed of soft violet clouds. Robert Smith's vocals and distinct guitar riffs sent me through waves of unremembered yet undeniable nostalgia. Even though one of my cats slept on the bed beside me, I felt very alone and lost in a huge world, alone and lost amidst all that stretches on and is under the govern of the cold moon with it's violet comfort. I am happiest when I am alone.
People piss me off. I want to kill myself so that I will be alone forever, and so that no one can touch me or speak to me or displace me or ignore me or use me ever again. I want to kill myself because I can have peace by no other means. The above described moments are rare and fleeting, and are permanently stained by the fact that I can hear people laughing down the hall, and I can't turn my music above a whisper or it will wake the people in the next room. There will be nothing for me while I am here, and certainly not while there are other people around. I want to be alone I want to be alone I want to be alone I want to be alone....
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Mar 18, 2010 20:05:49 GMT -5
Sob Story
So a few weeks ago my dad said I seemed down. We were in the car driving home from my part-time job. I then pointed out that I hadn't been well for a while. He asked if it was a seasonal thing. He said I seemed to be happy a few months ago, at my last job. I thought back to it, only a glance, more than that and I"d be overwhelmed. A few months ago? Like when I was drunk four or five days a week? Putting away a litre of wine a day, getting frustrated and crying myself to sleep. He was there when I was wasted and sobbing in October. Then again when I had a huge breakdown at four am in December, and took it out with my fists on a one-hundred and thirty-seven year old wall. He was there when I came home piss drunk and sobbing that I wanted to kill myself so badly, and that the only things stopping me were my sister and my best friend. He was there for all of this, and yet he thought my mental funk was seasonal. My mother witnessed the same. With the addition of another few fits that I had over a year ago, during one of which I confessed to her that at least half of what I thought about all day was suicide. My mother does not speak about it. Period. My dad thinks it's seasonal. I told him it's not. I told him it's been going on for around four years. He asked if I wanted to see a doctor. I said no, they'll just put me on medication.
I feel like I need to completely sob my flimsy heart out, but I can't because I'll feel so weak and useless if I do.
I listen to music and I feel guilty. This music belongs with memories of other people. Other people who didn't love me and tossed me aside. If the break-up was mutual then why did I feel so ill-used?
I'm going to a six-day music festival in a couple months. I feel like I'll go to it but then afterward I'll have nothing to do. I feel like that will be the climax to my life, my ascension into a bloody conclusion. It's just that there is nothing else after that. And I feel so dirty and tired. Everything is so gray. People say my genre of choice is dark and sad, and all about embracing the night. I find that it is the night that embraces me, and it glitters and shines brighter than anything else I've ever known.
I feel failed and forgotten. This music no longer sings to me. I want a high metallic snap. I want a razor across hot iron. I want to taste the result of my action and I want to follow into where it takes me. And nothing else.
The people I speak to on the phone have no soul. They all live in their comfy secured houses with their neat families and cozy incomes. I will never be there. But I don't want to be. These creatures are so foreign. They are nowhere near the same breed of beast as myself. Maybe I'm a mutt. Or maybe I'm the beast and they are leaves. Falling by and passing through, they are indistinguishable. They rot together into a thick muddy sludge. My paws are caked with their disdain
Sometimes I am so relieved to be alone. Sometimes I feel so dissatisfied by the lack of acknowledgment of my life. But I know I don't want the obligations of monogamy unless I find something that I've never found before. Something real. Something that makes me feel real. Right now I'm just a ghost with many memories.
At least I know that nothing will happen when I scream and beg for death. No one will even remember. Everything gets pushed away and I'll just be back in my bed.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Apr 7, 2010 23:15:31 GMT -5
Hello my angel I have not seen you in a long while.
This fucking sucks.
I am not in love.
Do not try to tell me I am.
It isn't possible at this point. And even if it was...
It would be way too painful.
So every time I see you I instantly do not care in the least about whatever I was thinking about. You're in front of me and I'm holding you again (or are you holding me?). I forget about the guy who ignored me and the guy who violated me. I don't give a fuck about the guy who didn't have faith in me and the other guys who simply weren't there. I can smell you, there's a tightening in my chest, like my heart is being smothered out by my lungs as I try to take in as much of you as possible. I just really want to tell you my dilemma. I really want to say I deeply care for you. And that would be enough. The flood gates would officially be opened. Maybe I don't believe that would change anything, but maybe we've been here for too long. I can't wait for you, I can't hope for you, you're never around anyway. And every time you come to visit, and every time you leave, you make the absence that much sharper.
But maybe I wish I could love you.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Apr 20, 2010 23:01:46 GMT -5
Truth here: I have no idea how I feel right now. I think it's good, or maybe it's just peace. I just sorta realize that everything is just so far gone out of my grasp. Yesterday I sold as many units at work in a shortened shift (3 1/2 hours, as opposed to a normal shift of 5 hours) as I sold all of last week (and last week was not a bad week). And incidentally, I was told yesterday that my hours were getting cut from 25 a week to 20 a week. It isn't a dire situation, but it still cheeses me off.
I'm listening to that Skeeter Davis song again, you know "The End of The World", and quite frankly, I'm kinda drunk. I've been listening to that song on repeat. This is the fifth time I've listened to it in a row. And I don't care if my sister and her male counterpart are pissed that I've got this corny old song on repeat. I've been drinking homemade/self-brewed wine that one of my dearest gave me. Yes dear, it works quite well, thank you.
Any who though, why does a guy like me like this song? Well I think I might know why.
Recently I have thought and rethought the concept of purity; or more precisely, the difference between the pure and the impure. The conclusion that I keep coming to is that no matter what I've done, or with who, I am still virginal. Oh don't judge me yet! I'm not a born again Christian or anything, so don't huff off and get your knickers in a knot just yet!
I feel like the only virgin in a sea of sluts because I am the only person my age whom I know who has never been in love. All these teens and young adults falling in love, I have never been able to grasp this concept. To me love is forever. If I love you and mean it, that's it. No exceptions. I can hate your guts for several months at a time and never want to see you, but I will always love you if ever I loved you at all. I can not think of anyone I have ever loved whom I do not still love. So to me, the idea of people falling in and out of love feels so weak and ridiculous.
I have never found what I am looking for.
To me, a person who has never experienced romantic love, everyone else seems to be a weak liar who wanted to claim love as much as they possibly could just to glorify a fleeting moment. So I feel like a white dove in a sea of reds, I am the freak, the anomaly (but for reasons more surprising than I would have guessed in my adolescent years).
There is but one other exception to this sea of sluts, my hetero life mate, my closest; Steve.
Steve has never fallen in love either. And last week I was discussing my sea of sluts theory with Steve. Steve brought some enlightenment. Steve suggested that I am, in general, a very compassionate and respectful person. Many people, especially those whom are particularly insecure, will mistake for love these said qualities that I consider to be common decency. Like the patient falling in love with the psychiatrist. The way I pay attention, the way my pupils enlarge when I am concentrating on someone, the way I cock my head to observe an individual from a slightly different angle, these things may subconsciously cause others to believe in what is not there.
I have now repeated the song twelve times.
But I digress.
I love this song, this "End of The World" by Skeeter Davis because she is what I would be like if I lost my real virginity and I was not properly reciprocated. This is what I view as the reality of a painful loss of purity. Skeeter Davis mourns that her love is wasted. She does not move on. This is the End Of The World for her. And that is it. There is no moving on from her. She actually loved and it didn't work out. She is not going to fall out of love. She will never love again. To me this holds remarkable significance. So this is it. This is my portrayal of what would happen if I lost my emotional virginity and it went wrong.
And after going through this and re-editing (all done drunk, of course) I am listening to this song for the eighteenth or nineteenth time.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Apr 26, 2010 16:31:38 GMT -5
Dear diary,
Today I drank a beer before work. And now I'm confessing this while at work on the work computer during my break. There are a few things that are constantly on my mind: sex, suicide, food, and finances. I'm in a good mood today. Which one do you think I'm thinking about?
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on May 1, 2010 19:43:31 GMT -5
Truth here: There's an empty wine bottle still in it's paper bag in my mailbox. Last night BFFL and I and other close ones drank our booster juice together. I wish the evening's twilight never ended, that we had a bottomless jug of wine, and that I had a perfect stomach. Last night was super fun greatness. I'm just sad last night's over. Thank you dearest.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on May 21, 2010 21:20:32 GMT -5
Have any of you read the book The Lovely Bones? Or have you even seen the movie? Well the gist of it is a fourteen year old girl who is raped and murdered by her neighbour. Her family eventually figures out what happened to her, but it takes a long time and it breaks up their family unit and they are forced to surrender all of their faith that they will ever see their girl again. The entire thing is told from point of view of the dead girl, who watches Earth from a heaven like limbo. She watches her family deteriorate and become embittered and distant from each other. Her death tears them apart.
I think about suicide often. I've been a lot better in the past few months. I find having goals and plans help to keep the giant swirling pit at bay. I used to think about it a heck of a lot more. I used to think about it every day at work. Trying to keep from crying at work was the worst, especially when i worked back at the warehouse and often had a box cutter right in my very hand.
I read the book The Lovely Bones and thought it was wonderfully written, I loved that it was written from the dead girl's viewpoint and that she was in a version of heaven that made a lot of sense to me. A year and a half or so later I saw the movie. Most people missed it because they were seeing Avatar. But I saw The Lovely Bones.
I'm not particularly sensitive to movies. They often aren't as personal as books. Nevertheless I was blown away. The music , the skies, the basic imagery and ideas of death and heaven in The Lovely Bones movie were all exactly as I had ever imagined them to be whenever I fancied slashing the big vein in my arm, you know, from bicep to wrist, I would make my suicide proper or not make it at all. I saw the father weeping for the loss of his daughter, smashing the crafts they'd made together. I was in the theatre with my sister and I started crying. That was what I had wanted to do. This death, this heaven, this pain was what I had wanted to do to them. To myself.
The murdered girl had been the older of two sisters. She'd been lighter, frecklier and more red-haired than her athletic younger sister. She had even been the creative one of the two. I was sitting in the theatre with my younger sister, living a very similar situation. I cried some more. I'm not sure my sister knew I was crying, but that was the most powerful movie I've ever seen.
The other night I had a dream that I was the girl who had been murdered, and my family had reported me missing but nobody yet knew I was dead. And when I was dead I knew that my grampa was on the way out himself. I woke up twisted in a tight fetal position, my face already wet. I woke up and continued to sob my eyes out.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on May 21, 2010 22:46:19 GMT -5
Violet is walking along the beach. There are sun bleached bits of driftwood all around her. They gleam in the Northern hemisphere's cold moonlight. Violet sees with her new preternatural eyes what these bits of driftwood used to be, under the moonlight she can see that they were once really the bones of children and girls whom the world thought they could swallow and spit out again. The bleached bones of the innocent taken by the filthy greedy guilty. The white bones stretch on and on and on across the shoreline, and Violet has hours before sunrise; hours to witness the degradation and rape of so many. Hours to walk on and on and on and be the predator to the wicked.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Jun 12, 2010 13:57:35 GMT -5
Dear Diary,
Today I had to take a urine test because my kidneys hurt and we suspect it's the pissing disease again. It was terrible because I pissed on my hand. It was god awful.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Jun 12, 2010 14:37:22 GMT -5
Today I am resentful of being alive. This body requires so much work just for maintenance of daily function. I constantly must eat and sleep and go to the bathroom. If we don't move or if we eat too much we get fat and lethargic. If we eat too little we start to shut down. Today I feel so heavy. My eyelids and face disgust me. It's hard to bring my vision into focus. I'm getting all sweaty and bumpy but maybe I shouldn't care. My arms are dead and mushy and useless. My thighs are sacks of meat. My breasts are melting and hang as conveniently as gravity allows them too.
I wish I wasn't alive. I wish my body did not require this sort of physical maintenance. I wish I was not so fragile.
One of my favourite songs is playing. I think of the places I've been and the things that Ive been doing at other times when this song was on. I was beautiful drunk stoned laughing and all of our blood flowed free as we wanted. I did not feel alive I felt perfect. Now I feel withered and dull at the age of twenty.
I have been doing some thinking. I have been out of school for the last year and a half and have barely any money saved for university. My job pays minimum wage and i don't get many hours. I'm gonna have to look at what I've got and look at where I'm going. I'm going to have to think about getting a better job.
But where am I going? But what do I want? It used to be that I wanted to find what I was looking for. But now I just want to go away. I don't want to see anyone. I don't want to fall in love. I don't want to have anyone else around me. I can't stand anyone anyway. Maybe I cling to them for convenience. If I were to actually try to make a life for myself a real life for myself I might study music again I might go to University in Montreal for languages. But the truth is that I want to be completely obliterated into myself and my own daydreams. I want colour and music and I want to see my own blood pouring out of this heavy shell spilling everywhere and I want to feel free finally free I want to float away.
This world means nothing to me. This violence this exploitation of the Earth itself, rape against nature holds no appeal for me. I need a new world.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Jun 14, 2010 18:56:49 GMT -5
Dear Diary,
Today I decided to walk instead of take the bus downtown. My right sock slid down into my shoe. Rubber rubbing on my heel. The left shoe was too tight and had the cuff of my pants tucked into it. Then my right knee goes snap crackle pop and next thing you know I'm limping. Just you watch! My kidneys are going to flare up and then it'll start pouring. Why did I want to walk today?
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Jun 22, 2010 20:06:23 GMT -5
Dear Diary,
Last night I was trying to fix a pair of sunglasses with super glue. I ended up gluing both of my hands to the glasses, to which the glue did not hold. My dad had to pour nail polish remover over my fingers while I tried to wiggle them free. The sunglasses are now ruined, and my fingertips have a weird texture to them which I hope is temporary. I feel turned off from these sticky misadventures. I will not touch super glue for at least three weeks.
When I'm having a slow day at work I amuse myself by drinking water.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Aug 15, 2010 18:30:01 GMT -5
Fuck my life. There is something wrong with my stomach and kidneys. I drank two beers and I am drunk. My mom is also drunk and just made me cry. I tried to call my best friend because I discovered something disturbing about my sister today and I needed to talk about it. She hit the ignore button on her phone. I know she did. I'm a telemarketer, I can tell the difference between someone hitting the ignore button and when they just don't hear the phone ringing. I can't talk to my other friends because I feel like they don't understand a god damned thing about me anymore. And my mom is drunk and weeping and telling me her life went wrong because of something that happened to her when she was fourteen. And anytime now I am going to write out the whole grizzly tale of what shit went wrong in my life. I'm only twenty years old, and I feel angry and weather beaten.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Oct 16, 2010 23:18:29 GMT -5
My life began in this town over twenty years ago. Or if you want to get more specific about it, my life really began in July 1989, on top of a mountain. The funny part about my mountain-top conception is that while my mom was pregnant, my brother (then three and a half) told my parents that he had had a dream he had a sister named "Lucy Rainbow" who lived in the mountains. When I was born my parents had no clue what to name me. For two weeks they tried out different names: Willow, Penelope, Madeline, Violet, but none of them seemed to fit. My brother started calling me Lucy. The date came where my parents had to have a name picked out. They went with Lucy.
The town I was born in and still live in is what I like to think of as a mid-size town. Twenty years ago it was a bit over seventy thousand in population. Today the population is hovering over ninety thousand. It is one hour away from our country's largest city. It is not a suburb, it is it's own small city. And everyone I know who isn't already stuck for life is dying to leave, including all my friends and myself.
I have more childhood memories than many claim to have themselves. But maybe everyone would just rather forget. I have never been able to just forget things or shove them from my mind. If something bad happens, I am utterly incapable of Forgive and Forget. I can move on, but i will not forget. I have three very early childhood memories that are tied for the earliest. The reason they are tied is because I was too young to know which came first, although I think they happened within the same year or so of each other.
The first memory is of going tobogganing when I was maybe three years old. There had been a heavy snow and it was a bright day. I was with my brother, father, and uncle, and the hill looked huge to me, and was filled with the sounds of screaming children laughing. We thought that I was ready to go down the bigger hill, so I was put on my little sled in my little pink snowsuit and given the proper send off. The sled took off down the hill. I was a little nervous about how much quicker it went on this bigger hill, but it was fairly exhilarating, and I was in awe of the rush. Then I saw the ramp. Some of the bigger kids had built a ramp out of snow and I was headed straight for it, going faster and faster. I hit the ramp and knew i was airborne, about to hit back down but wishing I didn't, and very frightened. My brother, uncle and dad all came rushing down the hill, wondering was I okay? At this part the memory loses it's potency. I was alright, perfectly fine. But I can't recall whether or not I cried afterward from the shock.
My second memory is from around the same time. We lived in the old house, the smaller house that we moved out of when I was five. My mom was taking a nap and I was bored and awake. I remember being on the second floor and walking to the head of the stairs, looking down them, looking at the textured plaster of the sloped ceiling that followed the angle of their geometric descent. I remember leaning forward, and floating out. I was flying, very slowly hovering forward, I was almost close enough to touch the textured ceiling over the stairs. I slowly floated back down to the landing, and was on my feet. I was not frightened, I felt content. No one witnessed this miracle.
My third memory was of sitting on the carpeted floor of the TV room, once again at the old house. I was building a house out of Lego, my brother and dad were both close by. I was halfway or so through building my little house, when my brother came along and stomped on it and pulled it apart. I started crying. Then my father was in the room, perched on the couch with my brother bent over his lap, my brother's pants pulled down to expose his vulnerable bare ass. I remember my brother, just another child, crying and flailing, trying to cover his behind with his hands. My dad was screaming at him. "Move your hands!"
The cycle of abuse had already started by the time I had come along.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Oct 16, 2010 23:31:19 GMT -5
I do not feel like my life is bad. I will be the first one to admit that I have a pretty sweet deal. My parents are both still alive and well and they are still together. We live in an upper middle class Victorian era house, and all five of us still live here. All three of us kids are legal adults and none of us pay rent. None of us have to pay for food either. Our mom still cooks a lot of our meals and we are well fed. We are all thin and good-looking. I am lucky. But almost anybody can tell you that being lucky and having a good home do not always make you happy.
No, I am not saying my life has been bad, and I want nobody to feel sorry for me. I'm not saying that I have seen or been through a lot, but I have seen and been through enough to be pissed off.
I like my father. I know he loves me and would do pretty much anything for me. But sometimes I start thinking about the past and a part of me hates him, uncontrollably, and without forgiveness. When we were little and we were bad, my mother couldn't handle disciplining us, mainly my brother. So the task always fell to my dad. I love my dad but what we were subjected to legally constitutes as child abuse.
My brother was never well as a child. Almost every day he would purposely hurt myself or my sister for the simple reason that we were healthy and he was not, and also as a way of lashing out at my parents and proving that by eliciting a reaction from us he still had some measure of control in the world. My dad's system of punishment was to scream at us and give us bare-bum spankings. This went on up until my brother was sixteen years old. My brother would hit me, I would be too small to properly defend myself or fight him and get upset, my father would get upset on my behalf and hit my brother, and when dad was away at work the next day, my brother would loathe me for what had happened and do something even worse. This is the cycle of violence. My father taught it to my brother, and then they both taught it to me. For not only was I constantly beat up (and yes, I was beat up, made fun of, and humiliated and bullied in every way) by my brother, but I still had to face my father's punishment if I did something bad.
I remember when I was about seven I was watching the news one night, and something really terrible had happened. I don't really remember what. I have a vague notion that some people got killed or murdered. Anyway though, later that night I was in my bed crying. I had just realized that there were some very bad people in the world and that they did bad things and caused a lot of pain to others. I was also realizing that a lot of bad things happened in the world. People were killed in natural disasters, whole families were starving to death, some people hurt animals on purpose, and so on. So I was crying in my bed. My dad called out to me from his and mom's room "Stop crying! I'm trying to sleep!" I replied something along the lines of "I can't!" or perhaps, "It's too bad not to cry!". Well he did not like those answers. As I continued sobbing I heard the door to his room open. At first I thought maybe he was going to console me, but then I noticed his footsteps were heavy, angry. He burst into my room. "If you don't stop crying right now then I'll give you something to really cry about!" This just made me cry harder. He came over to the bed and spanked me. Hard. I was seven years old and tiny for my age, and I was upset because of all the bad things in the world. Instead of being consoled, I was corporally punished; made to feel completely dominated and shamefully inferior by my own father, by my own pathetic inability to defend myself. I was taught the price for caring about something. I felt less than tiny. This was when I realized, nobody cared about the bad things, nobody cared about how bad they made me feel. Everyone just wanted you to shut up so they could go back to not caring and not thinking. About you or anyone.
When I was around nine or ten and my brother was about thirteen or fourteen, he and his friends had a school assignment where he had to make a video. I vaguely recall the video he made having something to do with drug addicts made out of plasticine. One day on the weekend he and his friends were all in the backyard, doing their project. I remember someone saying "Yeah! Let's make them hump!" I immediately knew that they were talking about my pet rabbits.
I ran into the backyard and saw my brother holding my sister's doe, Greyjob. The male rabbit was already hopping around the small playpen that the boys had their video camera set up in front of.
My sister and I both shouted to stop, the doe was hers and they didn't have permission to make a porn video with her in it. More importantly the whole idea just seemed gross and wrong. My mom called me and my sister into the house. When we protested what was going on she came outside and physically dragged me into the house.
I screamed at her. They were making a nasty sex video out of our rabbits and it was wrong, it was rape since they didn't have permission to be using my sister's rabbit like that. They were going to make it into a male enhancement commercial-it would be funny-and show it to their class at school. She blocked the door and wouldn't let me go outside to stop them. I was so shocked that she was letting my brother do this to us, letting him get away with this disgusting thing while my sister and I were so upset about it. I was even more so shocked that she was literally blocking the door to prevent me from getting in the boys way while they worked on their project, which by this point was completely irrelevant to the curricular requirements.
After screaming and crying and it getting me nowhere, I realized that my mother did not want to deal with anything. She could not deal with anything. She thought I was irritating and over dramatic, that the boys weren't doing anything wrong. This infuriated me further. My mother's indifference and misunderstanding made me begin to know how weak she was, how careless and self-centred.
I acted calm. I calmly went into the yard. Calmly stood closer and closer to where the boys were crowded around the pen. The female rabbit was running away from the male. I crept closer still. My presence was briefly acknowledged. The boys were too busy jeering and sneering and watching. I grabbed the closest side of the pen and pulled it back as hard and fast as I could, yanking up the other side, giving the female her well-wanted exit. I ran away into the house.
My brother and eventually his friends came after me, arguing with me, saying what they were doing was not bad. They laughed at me. Jeered some more at how upset I was. I cried and raged, and hated my mother. Who had quietly retired to her bedroom to read or nap.
When my father came home from work I told him what had happened. By this time I was almost hysterical and I was somewhat attempting to kill the male rabbit, but my brother and mom kept preventing me. I wanted to kill the rabbit because I was physically incapable of killing my mom or brother. Though even if I did the result would be bad, dad would hit me. But I was so full of rage and had nowhere to put it. So much hurt passed to me from my brothers overzealous bullying and my mother's betrayal that I had to put it somewhere. In screaming sobs I told dad what had happened. He demanded from my mother why she had let this happen when one of their children was so thoroughly distraught about it. He demanded my brother destroy the footage of my rabbits.
Ever since then I have not felt as close to my mother, never felt as secure around her. She has since proven herself many times over to be weak and unreliable. She is the anti-example; what not to be. I can hardly stand her.
My brother's cruelty has proven itself to be typical.
In the time between the boys taping the rabbits and my father getting home from work, my brother and his friends took his large Oscar fish out of it's tank and put it in a waterless box made from glued together Popsicle sticks. He put the box down on the cement patio in the backyard, then with all his friends cheering and looking on he smashed the fish and box together with a sledge hammer. Killing the fish and melding it's fine guts between the splinters as it gasped and suffocated for water. My mother didn't prevent this either. They buried the evidence and hosed off the patio. When I was upset about the brutal slaughter of the fish my brother tried to tell me the fish had already been dead, but I had seen it flapping and choking, and I knew better. When I told my father about it, my brother denied it. But the sledge hammer was splattered with bloodied scales.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Oct 16, 2010 23:33:22 GMT -5
My brother has made me cry in front of almost all of my friends and every boyfriend that I have ever brought to our house and then some. My brother has hit me or made fun of me or just completely humiliated me and my sister in front of some of his friends too. My brother and my father both were physically abusive to me when I was a kid. If I wasn't being punished for something by my father I was being beat up by my brother. When my brother was punished by my father he was made to feel tiny and insignificant, he had absolutely no control over these violent situations and felt like less than nothing, dominated, and without any allies. He also must have felt unspeakably and shamefully weak for not being able to stop my father from hitting him. I know this because then in turn my brother would take it out on me. He would make me feel like my life was completely worthless because I was too small and weak to defend myself. My father made me feel this way too when he punished me. So I took what my father threw at me, and then I took what he threw at my brother, since my brother just passed it along to me anyway. I had nobody to pass it along to. Although my sister is two years younger than me she has always been tougher and stronger, physically and emotionally. But even in the early years when she wasn't, I was not angry with my sister, I did not want to hurt her. Besides, my father and brother were the same way with her that they were with me. My sister was usually the only empathy I had.
Only a couple of years ago, when I was in grade eleven or twelve, I came home from school one day and went upstairs to use the computer. The chair we use at the computer is an old comfy chair with big arms that wrap right around the back of it. It is floral print on a background that used to be cream but is now just gray and dirty. It used to be in our living room before mom got new furniture that we couldn't afford but bought anyway.
So there I was at the computer sitting in this big comfy chair when my brother came along. I could hear him coming up the stairs, laughing like a maniac for the specific purpose of bothering me or psyching me out. Before he spoke I knew that he was going to force me off of the computer. He wanted to do something. I held my ground and ignored him. I was so sick of him invading me and interrupting whatever I was doing. He always just came along and bullied me into whatever it was he wanted, or he'd hang around me and upset me so bad that I would just have to leave.
He came up behind me and when I ignored whatever he was laughing at and talking about he started shaking the comfy chair I was sitting in. I yelled at him to stop it but he didn't. He wouldn't. I tried to laugh it off, laughing with him instead of screaming at him sometimes got him to stop being bad, or at least be not as bad. He laughed and instead of leaving me alone he flipped the chair over, with me clutching the sides of it so I didn't smack my head off the hardwood floor. I held on and the chair turned completely upside down on top of me, with me inside the tiny hollow space, smooshed backwards and bent in half against the hardwood. My brother started shaking the chair again, I quickly rearranged myself onto my side and into a tight ball in the fetal position, which was an amazing thing to do considering how tiny the space was. There I was, seventeen or eighteen years old and I was trapped under a chair and could hardly breathe. Trapped by a twenty one or two year old who had been smashing me to pieces my entire life.
I couldn't breathe. I called this out to him. He laughed and shook the chair even more, started jumping on it. I was still wearing my zip-up hooded sweater and was very quickly getting way too hot. I still couldn't breathe. I begun to panic. I screamed at him to let me go, this wasn't funny anymore. He started to spin the chair, at first slowly, then he jerked it fast the other way. My long hair got caught between the hardwood and the moving upholstery. Bits of it ripped out. I screamed at him and with all the strength my ninety-five pounds could muster while on my side crunched into a little ball in the fetal position, I hurled my shoulder against the chair trying to break free. The result was the chair bumped up a few inches and came back down hard as he shoved more of his weight on it. I was overheated and I could not breathe and my hair was ripping out against the floor and the skin between my pants and sweater was exposed and becoming more so from the rotation, causing a horrible chafing rubbing effect from the floorboards, and the spinning was hurting inside my head and making me feel quite ill. I arrived at full claustrophobia driven panic. I screamed and bucked and bumped the battered upholstery above me, I clawed at the fabric and could think of nothing but escape. He laughed harder and harder. I still couldn't breathe and I felt very faint, very defeated, and completely disgusted at myself for not being able to get free. I was hurt that after seventeen or eighteen years he still loved to torture me, but this personal sting was so familiar I didn't much notice it. I hated him. And I loathed myself completely.
Somewhere in my loathing panicked brain I registered that my sister had just walked in the door, home from school herself. She was in grade ten or so. I had gone still by then, willing myself to death under my aged floral print prison. She walked up the stairs, saw my brother on top of my cage. "What are you doing?" she asked him. "Where's Lucy?" I made the chair bump a bit. A weak bump. I didn't have much left in me, and I wanted to lose everything. As the chair bumped up he laughed, making some lame joke about a bumpy ride. She realized where I was.
"You trapped her?! Let her out!"
"No! She's in her cage!"
I could hear a scuffle ensue, muffled through my prison. The chair with me under it was shoved forward and lifted up. I scrambled through the little opening as fast as I could, realizing that the opening was right in my sister's bedroom doorway. I crawled over the carpet and collapsed in the room darkened by her heavy blinds, I curled up on a pile of laundry.
The air was unbelievably cool and fresh here. I was trembling all over with my eyes closed, still so claustrophobic and frightened from being so hot and trapped and suffocated. I felt like I would give anything to die for being so weak and helpless. I could hear them fighting in the hallway. I felt scared, and reached out tentatively and pushed the door shut. My sister was shouting at him, really telling him off. He backed off and left her alone.
She came into the room and took one look at my trembling pathetic form. She erupted back out into the hallway where my brother still stood.
"What the fuck did you do to her? Huh?" She shrieked. "She's really freaked out right now! What the fuck did you do to her?"
He tried to get into the room to see what she meant. I screamed and jolted further back onto the floor, away from the door as my sister forced him away.
"Are you okay?" she looked at me. She was so worried.
I broke into harsh gulping sobs, trembling all over even more. I stayed there on the floor for a long time, completely broken down on a pile of laundry sitting on the floor in my little sister's bedroom.
I could recall no occasion where I had hated myself more, completely loathed myself for not being able to defend and protect against what I always knew was coming. I wanted to kill myself so bad. When after half an hour the sobbing fit stopped and I was still lying on the floor, somewhat calmer, I got up very quietly and went into my room. I started to slice.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Oct 16, 2010 23:36:16 GMT -5
I have never been in love. Period. This is the truth.
But at one point in my life, I did tell someone I loved them.
I lied.
When I was sixteen I had my first kiss. Then I had my first kiss with a guy. Then I had my first boyfriend. And then for the first time I had sex.
The guy I was with was someone whom I had met on my high school wrestling team, and for three years or so before going out with him I had thought he was good looking. Having sex with him seemed like a completely reasonable thing to do. He was somewhat attractive and was attracted to me. I felt like I was the right age for it. I wasn't sure how much I believed in love or that it was actually something worth waiting for. I did not love this boy, I do not know whether he loved me or not, but we told each other we did anyway.
We had sex for the first time on February 27 2007. It was okay. It did not hurt anywhere near as much as I thought it might. It barely hurt at all. I didn't feel much. We did it a few more times. On April 1 we were doing it for the fourth time. I started out on the bottom. He suggested we switch. I was not against this idea.
Sex had been a disappointment to me. The first time was okay, but that was the first time. You expect the first time to be awkward and bad. So the first time being okay seemed like a good thing to me. But when it did not improve the second or third times, I felt bored. So during the fourth time, when he suggested I get on top, this idea did not seem that bad to me.
I climbed on top and got bored again, moving up and down like a horse. He didn't like the way my hips wanted to move naturally, so it was a straight up and down horsey ride for me.
He slid his hands up under my shirt, and then my bra.
He never slowed down enough to worship my skin, just always shot his hands up my shirt or down my panties whenever he got the chance. He was constantly doing that. I would be lying on the couch watching a movie and he would be trying to finger me. I would ask why he was doing that. He would always respond that he was trying to satisfy me. It would hurt, his hand rough and rubbing against my dry skin, my crotch not the least bit wet or aroused and developing a dull painful ache because he wouldn't stop rubbing me. When his hands weren't down my pants they were up my shirt, doing the same sort of thing with my nipples. I was not aroused by that either. He rubbed them so much and they chafed so bad that they actually got rug burn. This didn't satisfy me either. A lot of the time I would force his hands out of me and he would force them back in. Ignoring didn't help much either, because then the chafing just went on for longer.
I was still wearing my shirt and bra because I was still very uncomfortable with nudity. It was not that I thought my body looked bad, on the contrary. I was naturally thin and worked out, I looked good. I just was not ready for anybody to see me naked. It felt like if they saw all of me then I had given them too much, they had seen all my cards, nothing would be just mine anymore. I had explained all of this to him a few times when he had been pressuring me for sex, or at least a peepshow.
As he ran his hands up awkwardly under my bra and onto my nipples, I reached behind me and unhooked it, making it a bit easier and putting less stress on my bra and skin. I was bored, and continued to move up and down up and down. I wondered how long this would take. I stared at the wall behind his bed. There was a Pink Floyd wall carving, made of wood. I was wondering where it had come from...
"Huah!" He exhaled from under me.
I felt his hands jerk up my body and my chest was cold, my shirt and bra bunched up against my chin.
He had forced up my clothes. He had exposed me against my will, against my very specific instruction and explanation for him to not do this and why. I had been violated, and he had even included a little sound effect for when he yanked my shirt up, the "Huah!" sound he'd made.
I was stunned and furious. I slapped him hard across the face. "You bitch!" I hissed. I slapped him again. "Bitch!" Louder this time. I got off him and moved to the side. I was so angry. I did not know what to do.
Had my anger, my reaction been justified? Should I be angry at him for this? Well I had specifically told him not to do that... But I was fucking him. But I was so angry! But would he call me a slut or a prude? We were fucking after all, was this violation a legitimate reason for me to be upset? But I was furious...
"So does this mean we're not going to finish?" he asked.
I lay down, so angry and so confused. "Whatever."
He climbed on top and pushed back in. He moved back and forth in and out. Fucking me. I was bored and enraged, still not sure if this was something I should really be mad about. I stared at the wall as he moved up and down and I wished I was anywhere else. This room was so filthy and squalid, with plates sitting around from last weeks pork chops, bones still sitting scarred and naked on display. The room was strewn with laundry. Not just clothes on the floor, but dirty smelly piles that had been there for too long. There was also garbage and an overflowing ashtray and the sheets hadn't been changed in a long time.
My rage made time turn sour. I was bored. I waited.
Finally he made a wheezing grunt and pushed himself up. He was getting off of me at last. I started to sit up. Something squirted onto my shirt. I looked down and immediately noticed the colour of his organ had changed. We'd been using a coloured condom- yellow -and now he was much more pink.
"Something just squirted onto my shirt!" Immediately my breathing and heart rate had picked up and I was terrified by the sudden and very real vision of getting pregnant with his nasty seed, having his nasty child, being stuck with this asshole (who had just violated me) for the rest of my life.
"What?" he asked stupidly, his mind still flooded by the orgasm I had never had.
"Something just squirted onto my shirt! The condom broke!" I was feeling fluttery, getting closer to panicking.
"What?" This time he started to catch on and look down. "Fuck!" He shouted. He pulled off the tattered remains of the prophylactic and whipped it into the mess of the room. "Fuck!"
Now he was furious. "FUCK!"
"I can't have kids!" I shouted. "I just won't!"
"Stupid fucking condoms!" He raged on.
An idea other than rage and panic came into my mind. "I can't leave this stuff in me. I have to get it out, now!" He looked at me stupidly.
"Give me a bath!"
He understood at last and went to the bathroom. I heard him start the tub. I marched out from his room, naked below the waist. His family wasn't home, so someone seeing me wasn't a problem. I re-hooked my bra and stomped into the bathroom. He turned to look at me. I whipped off my shirt, which now had a white gooey smear on the front of it. For a moment he stared at me, standing in his bathroom wearing nothing but a bra. He was just in pajama pants himself. He was staring at my concealed breasts, and I was standing there, furious and frightened. He finally looked back up to my face. I went to the motel-sized bath tub and sat down in the shallow water. I glared at him. He glanced back once and left, closing the door behind him. I reached down and used my fingers to attempt to get everything out of me. The warm water surged in and I felt slightly cleaner, but still way too filthy. I felt dirtier than I ever had in my entire life.
I got out of the bath and dried off. I went back to his room and put my clothes back on. I put on my shirt inside out to hide how dirty it was, how dirty I was. I hoped that nobody would notice.
He was waiting in his small crowded living room. He was sitting, fidgeting. He got up and started pacing, punched the wall. He was mad at the condom, and he never stopped swearing about it. I asked for the phone. I had a plan.
I called home and told my dad that I needed him to pick us up. We wanted to come hang out at my house.
I told the guy to go get his money. He had babysat his cousins the week before and had bragged to me all week about how he had made fifty bucks doing it. He told me he had spent the money on beer and had eight dollars left. I was furious.
When we got back to my house I told my parents that my boyfriend and I were going for a walk. They protested, said "Aw, Lu, he looks tired!"
I said "He's just lazy." And we left the house.
I had thirteen dollars, he had eight. That made twenty one. I really hoped that Shoppers Drug Mart didn't charge more than that for what I needed. It was a half hour or so walk to the drugstore. I speed walked, he complained.
I walked straight to the back counter, the pharmacy counter, boyfriend guy in tow. There was a young girl at the counter, only a few years older than me, if that. After very awkwardly tiptoeing around with her I just came out with it.
"The condom broke." I said point blank.
She stared at me for a moment, a bit shocked, but immediately understanding. Hold on a minute. She went and quickly spoke to another woman behind the counter, this woman being the actual pharmacist. She said "Come with me."
She led me behind the counter into a clinical office room with heavily frosted glass for walls. She pulled out a small flat box, labeled Plan B. This was what I had come here for. Plan B is an emergency contraceptive pill (ECP). Taken within seventy-two hours after having unprotected sex. It stops a girl from getting pregnant. I had to take one pill right then and another pill exactly twelve hours later.
She rang in the pill. Forty dollars. Fuck. I gave her all I had, twenty-one dollars plus loose change in my pockets.
"That's all you've got?" She asked, now worried. A fresh wave of panic rolled through me, flooding out my brain. She must have noticed, because next thing I know she reached into her own pocket and put her own money into the cash register. I thanked her profusely and speed walked away. Boy was considerably calmer, but was still grumbling about the stupid faulty condom. With the crisis swiftly averted, I was back to my own world of anger. We went to the park and burned the remaining condoms of that same faulty brand.
The next time I saw him was three days later, a Wednesday. I was still angry that he had yanked up my shirt, exposed me, violated me, no matter how slightly. He had done something to me sexually that I had specifically forbade him from doing. He had not raped me but he had taken something from me and made me feel low and cheated all the same. I was glaring holes through him, and I let him know it.
Next weekend I got my period. I was still furious at him but I was home free. I dumped him. He cried. I was so completely satisfied with his tears that it wasn't even funny. It was hilarious. He had violated me and I made him cry for it. I was home sweet home and all on my own.
I have never been in love.
But at one point in my life, I did tell someone I loved them.
I lied.
And I love myself for it.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Nov 24, 2010 9:08:26 GMT -5
this just makes me so much more aware of how i changed when i started to realize how many trespasses had been made against me. i thought i was just like this. and maybe i am just like this. but to categorize myself into this narrow space that has so many easy explanations.... this makes everything i have done so much harder to look at. but what have i done? honestly... i have a very intuitive mind, but that is just because i know what i am looking for.. symptomatically speaking. i can't remember what it felt like to be completely content and to not want to kill myself. what the fuck is this life? the people whom i would notice are the same people who want to do what i want to do. every one else seems completely fake and a liar. anyone who is in the least bit beautiful to me is so severely damaged. i make no claim whatsoever to being knocked in the head, but honestly, a lot of ignorance can get you really far down the solitary path without merriting any sort of medical attention. i believe you. no. never. yes. it serves as sarcasm and most do not see it. i know you do. no. no. i trust you so much more thAN SO MANY OTHER PEOPLE WHO WOULD THINK THEMSELVES TO KNOW ME SO MUCH BETTER. and they would think i trust them more too. they aren't okay. mom and dad play nice most of the time, but they secretly drive eachother crazy. they both work dead end jobs that require no education whatsoever, they both adhere to gender roles, they can not help myself or siblings in the least when it comes to post secondary education. i am on my own plus my aunt and grandparents and loans when it comes to school. but i dont even care much about that. so what if my parents are not rich? so many people have it so much worse than i do. the thing though is that i never quite realizesd just how violated i felt until years after it happened. and i know that you have had far worse things happen to you than i have had to myself. but then why do i feel so closely relativeto you? it is the impact. but i try so hard to be in control. i love myself so much. how does this conquer that? every one is a slut and everyone lies. i am not excluded from this in the least. i never said being a slut was bad.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Nov 24, 2010 14:42:27 GMT -5
two fags in a goth pod.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Dec 16, 2010 0:59:26 GMT -5
i want to kill myself.
...again.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Dec 23, 2010 1:15:29 GMT -5
Fuck my life. The enemy is eating all my favourite food and trying to use said food to make me forgive him, I'm not falling for that...again. If I eat the food the enemy offers me then that will constitute as being nice to me, giving me a favour, I will owe them and they will act like they own me. If I eat the food the enemy offers I will be letting them back in again. I can't take it anymore. They must not be allowed back, no peace must be made.
But I really fucking wanted that. It was mine, put in the fridge especially for me.
The enemy took my food.
I think someone did something really bad to my mother when she was young. When I was screaming she seemed to know exactly what I was saying. She asked me if a man had hurt me. I was frightened by how close she came.
|
|
DolorNoir
Archfiend
4am knows all my secrets
Posts: 1,560
|
Post by DolorNoir on Dec 23, 2010 1:20:12 GMT -5
I started wearing black a lot when I was fifteen and especially sixteen. I guess that's when I first started seeing myself and everyone else as a victim. I've been mourning us since.
|
|