You little shit, what knowest you of pain?

Qui simulat victimam perimit innocentem.

You took a rare and beautiful thing overflowing with life and love, and reduced it to a soulless, desiccated husk— hardly a shell of its former self.

Carnis proditor putris, Tempus tuum veniet.

A flower, the only one of its kind, grew only for you, flourishing and thriving simply by being able to give you its love and its beauty, and you repaid it by feeding it poisonous lies and toxic words. You chewed up its love for you then spat it back, causing its petals to rot and wither as your venomous saliva broke down the very fabric of its being.

Eo quod occidisti, contabesces.

You stamped it out, pissed on it, then left it all by itself to die. But that alone was not enough for you. No, you had to add insult to injury, did you not? As though the simple yet complicated fact of your torture, neglect, and abuse was not horrible enough, you went on to spread abhorrent lies about your victim, framing the poor, tortured creature as the villain in your tragic little fantasy about how you were the one who suffered.

Pudeat te. Vulgaris creatura malignitatis.

Every time your flower started to grow back, you sneaked over to stomp it out again, and for a moment, your facade was so convincing that even your flower began to believe your repulsive narrative. It stopped trying to grow, thinking itself to be none more than a noxious weed. And you took advantage of this product of your conditioning, showing it off as a signed confession of guilt to all who would see. But the guilt was untrue. It was simply a seed you planted in her head and watered with shame, distance, and silence.

Nescias pacem.

You formed an entire army to come and attack the poor, pathetic dying husk of what you already destroyed, and you still have the gall to feign innocence and maintain that you are the victim. How pathetic. To weaken something to the point that it cannot fight back, then forge your own narrative on top of its lifeless body. You are lower than the lowest of scum. Anyone with even the slightest drop of integrity would cease the act and admit their guilt.

But not you. You just sit there and bide your time, waiting for all of your dirty little secrets to die with her, so you never have to face up to your litany of lies and manipulation.

I spit on you.

I’ve decided not to care. It’s just a waste of energy and kind of self-centered. Like, no one else cares, in fact I know there’s going to be a party rather than your standard funeral, so why should I waste my energy giving a shit? It’s fine. I’m fine.

I’m just going to further distance myself from the world, and focus on telling my story, so that when I do die, maybe someone, somewhere in time and space, will know exactly why.

I’ve learned how to be alone. It’s nothing new, and while it can be difficult, sometimes overwhelmingly so, it’s become a kind of normal for me, so I’ll just muddle through in my isolated world until I am finally excused from it. Honestly, I think it’ll be easier that way. Not having anyone who cares, who will be devastated. No complicated goodbyes to have to say. Just my usual, involuntary solitude that I can slip away in, all alone.

It’s just simple. Thank god at least one thing in my life can be simple, even if it’s only my goddamn death.

https://spotify.link/GRM2zmOFTDb

A small eternity (in the form of a few fateful days) ago, I woke with such stupidity hope. Such a… Sunny outlook. I decided I was going to start cleaning up my language and stop saying things I don’t really mean like “I can’t wait to die,” or “please kill me,” as well as being mindful of saying “I wish” and be more careful with that.

In addition, I had begun to talk to myself in a kinder voice, the way I’d talk to a close friend. Because I realized that even when my abusers aren’t present, their words are still my inner (and sometimes outer) voice, so they continue to abuse me by putting me down and telling me mean things that aren’t true about myself.

I was, like, kind of happy for once. I was turning things around already, and was now planning ways I could make things even better for myself.

But then I went to the doctor, and… it’s too late to start being careful of my speech. It’s too late for a lot of things. And it’s so stupid.

I don’t know how to feel. It’s just… it makes no sense. After I’ve survived so many things I shouldn’t have, why this? Why now? Please. It’s such a fucking cliché.

I don’t want to die anymore. I haven’t for a while. I’ve been better. But… the damage is done.

Maybe I should try to be happy about it. Right? Like… no more getting treated like shit. No more random legal bullshit keeping me from living my life. No more pain, god, the fucking pain.

But also… no more new experiences. No more tasting, no more smelling, no more touching. No more of so many things I have grown to love, and of course… no chance of ever getting my kid back. Why bother starting shit now? It’s just going to make what time I have left even more miserable with lawyers and court dates and my ex using whatever dumb little shit possible to fuck me over on the whole thing, rendering it all a waste of fucking time anyway.

There’s so much I still want to know. There’s so much I still want to do. So much unfinished business, so much closure I’ll never get…

I don’t want to die without finishing the story…

I am divided, right down to my marrow. Sometimes I feel as though I am a chimera of sorts— the unholy fusion of two repelling magnets. Complete opposites, refusing to cooperate, but unable to separate.

Maybe I am the Yin Yang, and my body is the circle that contains it all. But of course, this is true. How foolish of me to imply that I did not already know this. I simply forgot. For so long, I lost who I was. Or maybe I specifically abandoned her.

Stop saying maybe. You know what you did. You rebuked your own name, and that is why you cannot find that peace. Because you are the peace. But if you’re not at peace, little else is. Look at the state of the world, little yin yang.

Of course you cannot be blamed for this. Your pieces are missing, and you haven’t the ability to control them, to summon them back, because they have a will of their own, and therefore will not bend to yours so easily. In fact, the harder you try to summon them back, the harder they pull away. Which is why you’ve left the thoughts of them on the back burner as you attempted to heal.

But what happened then? They took a stab at you after you’d done nothing to warrant such behavior, and what’s more- they invaded your privacy, throwing you off-kilter. And now you are so guarded that even you cannot penetrate your own defenses. You forgot your name, you threw it off and cast it away like it would kill you. And yes, of course, it is understandable when no one has ever said it in a way that made you feel good about yourself, that you’d want to sever yourself from it.

But dearest, the name of who you are cannot be taken out of you. It would be like trying to alter your DNA. It simply isn’t done. You can hold your name close and keep it private and safe while hiding under the shade of a softer sounding name, you know. It can be your little secret, if you’d just take the trouble to file some boring papers.

But perhaps what you need is to make amends with the name. Forgive it for all it’s cost you, for all the ways it’s sliced you up over the years, and welcome it back with open arms as an old friend, just as you’d do for anyone else. Why is it that you can forgive others for the terrible abuse they’ve inflicted onto you, but you cannot treat yourself with the same mercy and compassion? Why can you continue to love someone who has betrayed you so many times over, but you can’t find it within you to love yourself?

Is it because you play follow-the-leader and jump on the bandwagon with everyone who hates you? Because you are so desperate for acceptance that you will disrespect your own self to try to gain it?

Let me remind you who you are. You are balance. You are the force that keeps the balance. But how can there be balance with no basis for comparison? There cannot be! One cannot experience joy unless they have experienced pain. There can be no light without the darkness. You want to make everyone happy because you are a being of peace and balance. But balance includes the bad. Balance includes not always making people happy.

It’s up to them to love you in spite of the chaos that comes with you. Because those who do will always be rewarded by the sweetness that comes from your happiness when you are filled with so much love and joy that you can do nothing but spread it.

Forgive yourself for now, and maybe with enough time, those missing pieces will realize they are half of a part of a whole, and cannot be complete until they come back home to you.

Only then will balance be restored. So do it. Forgive yourself, and love yourself, and nurture her. That way you can really mean it when you say that you have done your part. And maybe when you’ve made friends with yourself again, all this waiting won’t seem quite so lonely. :,/

We can only hope.

Yeah, but. Let’s be real. Whenever I say something, it always devolves into a script-flipping, reactive abuse, “you having feelings hurts MY feelings, so now you get a whoopin’” (mentally) narciopathic shit show extravaganza, ending with me being the asshole for daring to breach topics that may have the audacity to suggest that someone else might be mentally, emotionally, or verbally abusive to me.
I’ve lived 34 years, almost 35 years at this point, never having a safe space. A home. A family. I’ve just spent my entire life as the retarded kid that everybody bullies.
Get beat up at school, after school, just to come home and get beat up some more, both emotionally and physically. Shamed and blamed for everything, always a convenient scapegoat. No one to turn to because smear campaigns preceded me, and everyone believed them.
No justice from all the sexual assaults I went through as a child because who would care? It would just be my fault. And I didn’t need anymore shaming on top of how disgusting I already felt.
And I just go my whole life believing that I’m a piece of shit. That I’m “crazy” or “psycho” for having natural human emotions. The abuse became my normality. So why oh why would I fall for anyone who wasn’t horribly abusive? If you’re not making me feel like shit about myself, something’s wrong. This isn’t healthy.
And now my life is ruined and my last living child taken away by someone who learned how to pull on all of the same triggers and push all the right buttons to hurt me, to elicit a reaction so they could pull back the curtain and say “BEHOLD, THE FUCKING PSYCHO.”
I’m done. I’m not staying silent anymore. I have a voice and that voice deserves to be heard, so that justice can possibly take place, or maybe just so that people might evaluative themselves and expand their perception so that they can look at things objectively and consider that maybe they really are the source of all their own problems because they create problems out of nothing so they can thrive on being pissed off.
I’m not doing it anymore.

I don’t think I want to blog anymore.

Sometimes writing my feelings down is cathartic, but I can keep paper journals. Sharing my thoughts with the entire class doesn’t seem to help anyone.

It doesn’t appear to help others to understand me. It doesn’t seem to help anyone to better understand themselves, or to not feel alone in their suffering.

The only thing it does is give lazy ghosts an easy spy camera into my mind without having to do the work to get to know me, but that isn’t a good way to know what goes on in my world.

I’m just tired of being ghosted and ignored and distanced by people who obsessively stalk me online. The time has come to shut it down. Because I need a human connection. I’m done settling for views. For likes. For fucking *any* attention in *whatever* form I can get it. -_-

I want someone to actually care if I live or fucking die. Not just a bunch of people nosy enough to find out if I’m still alive but not human enough to actually reach out.

I need human contact. I can’t live this plugged in, turned on bullshit Internet life for another goddamn day.

Confession time.

I had this stupid-ass idea that you were just on a journey to become the person I deserve.

I stupidly daydreamed that you were only pretending to be an asshole because you didn’t have everything ready yet.

By everything, I had this dipshitted notion that you were working towards buying a home for our family and surprising me by being a better you and having a home for me to come home to.

But no.

I’m such a stoooooopid fucking little idiot. No matter how much truth smacks me in the face, I keep crawling along, holding out hope for you, because I truly believed that we had something that was very rare and very beautiful.

But all you care about is the orgasms.

I really hate you. Why did you have to take my daughter? She was the only joy I had left. Now I have no joy. I’m fucking dead inside. I wish I could die, but I can’t. It doesn’t work. So I’m condemned to travel all around this shitty world, just haunting.

I know you think I’m just being dramatic and whatever the fuck, but no. No. My pain is real. It really hurts. It’s literal hell. This is hell. I am in hell. Please help.

I’ll do anything you ask.

Just please don’t fucking keep me in this shitty liminal state any longer.

Three days remain. Let’s face it. Nothing ever works out for me. It never has, and it never will, so I have a hunch that I’ll walk in on Thursday and never walk out.

Tomorrow is my last treatment before ground zero. For whatever that’s worth. I thought about not going, because what’s the point, but I was hoping I’d be able to see Shannon again one last time. Shannon has terminal brain cancer, because of course she does. She’s the sweetest person I’ve met since the last person who died of fucking brain cancer. When we see each other in the treatment room, we always sit together and chat. She loves watching me draw, and I usually share my snacks. But we don’t hang out or talk outside of that two hour little window when we both happen to be there at the same time.

And I don’t know. I’ve kind of enjoyed that. Having a friend that doesn’t have to be around me or get pestered by texts constantly. I’ve come to accept that my presence is one of those things best enjoyed in moderation. It sucks for me, but what else is new? I’m used to being lonely. At least this way, enjoyed in moderation, she will have no bad memories of me.

And then I’ll be able to rest knowing that there’s one person in the entire world who didn’t think anything bad about me… Who never had time to get sick of me. It’s just sad that she won’t be around to remember me fondly for much longer. I would say at least she won’t be in pain anymore, but she’s said that it hasn’t been causing her any kind of pain, or really any other side effects, which makes me so frigging happy to hear. Cause brain cancer is enough of a horrible thing to have to brave without also losing a sense, or the use of one of your hands, etc.

She seems to be doing well, all things considered.

At any rate, I suppose I didn’t come here to talk about all that. I guess I just wanted to write something down, in case I don’t get a chance to say any goodbyes or what not. But now I don’t really know what to say. I guess just that I’m sorry.

I apologize, very sincerely, for all of the bad memories that you have of me, if you’re reading this. Whoever you might be. Most likely, you are either a family member or a former friend who just got the news, and now you’re here to try to learn things about me that you didn’t bother to ask about when I was right here to tell you.

If you’re the latter, I can guarantee that I never stopped thinking of you, even though you deliberately left a bloody, gaping hole in my life and forced me to grieve your absence the same way one grieves a death. As I went on, I would always see things that reminded me of you and a little more of me would die, as I remembered you were gone from my life and I couldn’t get it for you, or show it to you, or whatever. I considered starting a Twitter account or something like that, just an endless feed of things that made me think of people who are either dead or missing from my life, but I only just had that idea quite recently, and it seemed pointless now, knowing that there’s a significant chance that my life will be over by the end of the week. I wish I’d thought of it sooner, honestly.

Over the years, it’s gotten more frequent, the more people who ditch out on me and/or die. I can’t count the number of people who have excused themselves from my life who I still think of when I see or hear something that reminds me of them.

I can’t forget any of them, even the ones who made the conscious decision to remove themselves from my life and leave me in my times of need. Because they meant something to me. They were important. Even if we didn’t always get along, even if we had our differences, even if we got on each other’s nerves, and so on.

You were important to me. Even if I was never important to you. And that is why I grieved and mourned your absence. You made yourself dead to me, but had the audacity to say that I was dead to you. But I wasn’t.

Because if I was truly dead to you, you would have grieved me, too. And then you would have realized that you were grieving, which would have made you realize that you made a mistake, which in turn would have made you want to fix that mistake.

But you didn’t. No one ever has. That means that I was never important to any of the people who mattered dearly to me in my life. So I’m here to tell you right now that if you’re here because you found out I died and you’re grieving my absence…

Stop it right now. Don’t grieve.

You don’t get to do that now. You chose to waste the precious little time you had with me on this planet, and you didn’t grieve when you did that, so why, for the love of god, do you think it’s appropriate to do so now? Because you just found out that you mattered way more to me than I apparently did to you? I tried to tell you that. Each of you. All of you. But you simply couldn’t care. Some of you even looked me in the eyes while I sobbed and told me that I meant nothing to you. You know who you are.

So do not fucking pick now, now that I can’t be here to receive your love, to suddenly decide you want to give it to me. You can’t now. You have to accept that I died thinking that you didn’t love me because that’s what you showed me through your actions.

And I am not being vindictive here. I’m here because I was always your voice of reason, always trying to help you learn and grow, but you never saw it that way, and you hated me for it, so for once in your life, take my lesson to heart, would you? Don’t make this mistake again. Don’t just trash human beings from your life because they do not serve you the way you want. Whether you choose to see it that way or not, everyone has a purpose in your life. I’m sad that mine might be simply to teach you this heavy lesson. But maybe from now on you will learn empathy and treat the people who love you the way you always should have: like they are important to you. Because they are, even if sometimes they drive you crazy, they are important. And if someone loves you, that is a beautiful thing. Do not simply write it off, or cast it away. Some people out there… we’ve never known what it was to truly be loved, and now we never will. So treasure what’s been given to you if you can still get it, and learn how to reciprocate that love.

It’s the most beautiful gift one being can give to another.

I’m such a fucking shitty friend. You deserved so much better.
I only just fucking found out, after tagging you in a chipper little happy birthday post like a jackass.
I really wish you would’ve talked to me more when you were here. I hate that I didn’t find out until three months later.
That’s probably my fault for not being more aggressive at reaching out.
I just thought you’d beat the cancer in the ass. But I thought my son would, too. So you’d think I would’ve learned not to be so dipshittedly optimistic.
I can’t believe you’re gone.
Like, I can’t even process it. I’m hoping it’s just an Amelia Project thing and you’re actually living it up in a new life on some beautiful island or something.
What am I going to do? More guilt, because I’m shit, and maybe I’m the cancer that keeps killing everyone I love.
This morning I awoke from another dream about my son where he was still alive and I’d apparently just left him in a hospital this whole time, because I forgot about him or some shit.
And I kept asking myself why. Why is it that whenever I dream of him, it’s always that. Always him barely hanging on in a hospital somewhere, waiting for me to remember he’s there?
And then later I find out you’re dead. And it hit me: that’s why.
Because I fucking suck.
I promised you a care package back in goddamn October, and it’s fucking April, and you died three months ago and I had no idea.
Why? Because I’m probably such a shitty friend that you didn’t add me to any kind of list of people to contact if that happens.
Happened.
I’m so sorry that I failed you. You were always the most supportive person in my life and you always told me I was a good friend even though I was apparently a piece of garbage.
I’ll never forgive myself. Not this time. I’m done being the thorn in everyone’s side. I don’t want to be the cancer that’s killing everyone I love.
I would say to you, if you meet my son, tell him that I love him. But I don’t deserve to ask anything of you. Still, if you want to tell him anything, tell him what I’m about to tell you:
I’m so sorry. I’m sorry that I failed you. I’m sorry that I fooled you into believing that I was a decent person. And I’m sorry if I’m the reason you’re gone. I’m sorry if you’re gone because my stupid ass never the fuck learns.
I’ve learned now. I’m grasping it for real this time.
The only way to save the people I love is to disappear from their lives. Stop spreading the cancer. Quarantine.
I love you so much and I am so, so sorry.