Repeat. I post the same pics. Not personal pics but pics I find so funny I can’t help not laugh every time I see them. I’ve been judged for it before. Some say I don’t remember doing it before and believe it is my first time and not aware.
They say come out of your room. Ofcourse I am informed that is my placement prior to this comment. It happens more then once and I am to say I am gay…or a liar perhaps…anything they want to put in my mouth and have it come back out. If I don’t comply then a punishment, more sleep deprivation, brain washing and repeating the same things till I meet their expectations.
To experience telling the truth and have people call you a liar. Ofcourse I am informed of the knowing my every move from needing to urinate to documenting my abuse. The childish attempts to the adult sarcastic remarks communicating the understanding of the situation. I admit I get lost in the mix. From gaslighting to efforts of encouraging my humorous outlook on life. Sometimes one gets hit while in the process of telling the children to walk away we laugh not in jest but for sanity’s sake.
Some ask why. Articulate? What happen to your time? My response is even when found telling my feelings of what has happened fail at connecting with words and coming out. The flood of memories as pictures pass through while sounds of they won’t believe and the occult has washed away the truth. It was a chance I took. After all the challenge of who was it and who are you was nothing new. I had already excepted my life and my story from my perspective would never be mine. It would always be someone else who had passed through. Something I think through out the years gave me comfort. How could I be the abused, it wasn’t me it was you. The disillusionment grew and grew. I had become the perfect child, the Daddy’s girl who for her family always gave in and came through. Not the independent person who plans how to be removed and moved only to onward move. The one who stays, lies and takes all the pain while sitting in a mediphoric chamber where the only stories are the ones the parents made. A toy, a doll, a performer. Entertainment for them and by their narcissistic behavior it appears I still am. It isn’t my life I write, not my poetry, not my story but everyone else’s I stole and strung others stories into. A mere mega phone to announce awareness of the abuse others suffer but nothing about me, I have never been used or abused. So no matter the time I have to articulate, the truth is lost due to the masses my step father and others have had me see that I’m nothing but just crazy. Most importantly a thief and well anything that would discredit me. Perhaps given all I’ve said, calling on the articulate was me being the sarcastic asswhole I am.
With these emotions an under current while I try to find ways to grow my currency, live life in the present and move past those who are unaware my life isn’t revolving around theirs. Trying to find a footing with the occult by definition, hanging over my head and judgement of how and when it began from people who aren’t detailed, thorough or slow to speak. Some get way to personal and with a judgmental tone of I know how it happened confess or I’ll just slander your name till I’m right and I win by default because you won’t write to me or call in. After all the occult lifestyle is a choice, just as child pornagraphy, or molestation and we as children know what we are getting into. Follow all these insults and results of rumors with everyday tasks of living a houseless life style. People standing outside your car while cat calling, mocking, gaslighting and instigating more drama we want more drama. Like my life and escape is a mere show to put on for entertainment and people pleasing, as if doing so increases my happiness as well as theirs. No time for healing. Just more of the same, push it down and plan for the day you pick up that gun and end everything because we will never stop treating you and your life as a game. I am a mental person who needs pulled out of a schizophrenic break, or so they would have me say. A cover for them so no one knows all the family secrets. Family secrets. That’s just the people I was born into. We haven’t even mentioned the test of humanity. My very sad and disillusioned attempt to try and save myself by reassuring my doubts I could get out without people being influenced by money and power.
So with these mountains and mole hills in my view, I do…I do sit here looking…and I do…I hear them telling me look over to the other side. But I also hear from there the ones before you and the ones after. I wish I could say the buffet was closed or that I no longer wish even of the honest my life to be biographical book on display. Some would say it’s the money, the sandwich (the one even I have joked of), or the lack of a home. It is time. Time wasted. Time I can’t get back. Time spent on experiences I will never be allowed to experience. Time I was told I would be able to make up. You’ll catch up they would say. Catch up. To what? What is all the words, all the art, all the music, all the work? If we have missed each and every metal and emotional growth in real time what is any of it. I didn’t sign up for a crash course at life. But that it what I’ve been forced to experience. Time is what I have missed. Experience is what I have been left with and that is something through everything I have been greatfull for. The awareness that though my time has been wasted by people trying to hold knowledge and information while stifling my experiences in attempts to control me. There is alot that can be stolen from a person. Experience is not one. For to be locked in a room with no hope for escape for a lifetime is still an experience. One that though this current body of flesh must endure, the very essence, the energy that makes us who and what we are will flow on and into something else carrying the experiences we learned and absorbed into ourselves.
Rolling around the words till the time is accurate, spill them out and act like they were never yours. My life is not my own. On days I don’t want to kill myself this lie is one reason. I am not that girl. I never will be. Still that gun looks real appealing for if I’m not planning someone else will. I haven’t been defeated, it’s just easier to belive it along with you.
theartoflife.space 