Too many people in and around.
My inner voice, no one believes. Instead, they want to force-feed me things to write. Tell me what I feel and how to write it down. Diction. As if the works in front of me would enlighten me. Truth, they pulled ahead and fed me back my own words edited. An effort to keep me from writing how I feel. As if I wrote for the masses. Like there were millions of people looking in critiquing me.
How would you critique emotion? Funny, because I am treated as if I am not aware of them or lack them entirely. My bubble, here, few read in entirety. In honesty why would one want to read the dairy of someone that is so down they have lost even their own encouraging words to others. The twisted then unwound, broken down sayings and quotes rephrased in their own words in an effort to open a different view or understanding.
I typed a question the other day:
What would I tell someone who was alone, how to boost their own confidence without the help of the support they lack?
In knowing stupidity, I have said I am alone. In a city the internet tells me has a population of 2.30 million. The points in time starting to add up and time falling in place where the repeats once were just a foretelling. No family and friends. Just this bubble. So, there is no support. No one to help with evidence. No money and no one to trust even if the currency was there. I have had some low points in my life and have always managed my own feelings and insecurities. I am out of cliches.
They started again. While I was in the store. Talking about me to others and saying things behind my back. They say the call I got was a recording and implied I would be in trouble at court. That it is me who is the problem. Narcissistic writing. This, my therapy. My assignment, to write not in a private journal, but in a space in the open. To help save me from the thoughts I have.
My birthday is next month. The third birthday of being here. Two years of a pity party I want to end. What is it they say about narcissistic people when no one pets them? I cannot help but laugh when they treat me as if I have no personality or depth. That I am no one in less I have others in my life. Insecurities and feeling less than adequate to have a conversation, yes. How does one talk about what they enjoy when they have never been able to study their interest in depth? Kept in a state of being blank. Something to write on or used for entertainment purposes. The idea because many things interest me disproving their own story of me on a spectrum that says I need special care and makes them the liar. I remember when I would be told it was time for me to lie just so my character would be discreated. What is a child to do? As an adult I read that and wondered what the definition of lie was at that time. More proof of the confusion intended to make me doubt myself and what I have been through. The attempts to have me not trust my own memories.
It feels weird being here when everything is matching up. 44 years. There is one who likes dates. They plan their attacks around certain dates with their own meaning. One who tells on themselves with the dates they choose. Symbolism.
I like symbolism, but growing up I was taught that was a demonic sign. Witchcraft. A Luciferian spirit. A narcissist spirit. A praise me spirit. Me the one who wants nothing but to hide, but that also is supposed to be the sign of a spirit. A spirit who wants attention and to hide, so as to not be called out.
You may have to do things alone, but there are other people just like you who are alone and must do it alone. That is what I would say. Find a reason to get mad. Not the anger in your own depression, but the kind of mad that says I want to kick angry depressions ass for allowing me to believe someone else can tell me I cannot be who I am and take my fight away from me. Yet, it does not quite motivate me much. I am exhausted. So, I do the next task but slowly, with little to no belief in myself or my own words. But I have never expected anyone to feel overwhelmingly motivated by my words. I just try to find a way to show up for them. Give some support as best I can. I fail and words are hollow. How to show up for oneself would be my new question.
I look for a future I am not allowed to have because I am expected to end my own life. So, to plan, is only for the next day. The next year, five or ten years set off the voices and they yell or sternly tell me I am wrong. Filling a negative room is like a light from a candle. The room does not darken and takes back over completely till the candle is gone. I see tin daily.
I am kept from my descriptive and what is referred to as drama so to make me be more serious about my situation. This strips me of any writing growth. It is not supposed to matter because I am not a writer.
I am not a writer. I am someone who writes their thoughts and feelings until I get some sense of feeling that I will be okay. I readily admit I have written what others would have me write only to have them get angry because I will not take dictation, so they resort to going ahead and finding out what I would have written and then feed me my own words. They are not like the others. Still to the others I have to say I have a dictionary and I love a good synonym search. Some of the others laugh about thesauruses, but I straight face say I am in mid thought I do not have time for a thesaurus. Truth and still sarcasm.
Fast food writing. That was the reference used the other day by a writer. It made me uncomfortable due to my situation. On brighter days of fighting and confidence I would laugh and say maybe but not Taco Bell, but Rosia’s. Or not gourmet, but not fast food. Fast food to me if force feed subconscious thoughts written to make one feel less than themselves. They are the ones I want gone. For I do write from inspiration at times those even more quiet or private than me. The imposters have started to block my memories. They steal the relation and invade the conversation. I do not allow/cannot allow the ones who relate to me anymore. A win for the liars. For I am cut off from the only ones left to talk to. The ones who do not drain me or use me for that matter. I am left here missing them and talking in circles of days that I cannot finish. My responses were blocked because the ones on the other end are just as private about our conversations as I am. No names, no facts, just emotions. Shared emotion in our own words. I am discouraged from seeking out a session to respond to a telegram. I have no fight left in me. I feel stupid. Embarrassed.
So, my writing seems doomed to be a teenager’s journal. No short stories for I will step on someone’s toes. No poetry for I have no respect for culture. No essays, because…because I am lazy and truly busy right now. Blocked from my classes for proof reading. I am struggling. As this paragraph comes out a spoiled, mean, and jealous one is portrayed as happy at their accomplishment. Their favorite date to have one kill themselves better to catch it on film or in front of an audience.
Born in a no hope situation filled with dreams and aspirations. Stifled ambition. Kill the good ones. Evil reigns. Heartless and evil survive. Cookie cutter people survive as long as they are evil. Ask the cookie cutter people to kill themselves and they whine. Cookie cutter people are normal. Imagine a store with only one brand and only one item of each brand. A world with just shortbread cookies. Not only just shortbread cookies but only one design, square. A whole isle of just white bread. No wheat, no pumpernickel, no rye. No options. No design.
A world of just white people. Or an entire world with only brown people. No just a world of only black people. A world full of albinos. A world with no room for wonder, why and where did our colors come from. Why melanin? No Science. No questions.
WHAT THE HELL WOULD WE FIND TO TALK ABOUT. LOL (you already know if encouragement cannot be found always lean on dry humor and sarcasm)
I will probably have nightmares about a world with no pumpernickel bread tonight. The idea is horrifying.
If you know of any job opportunities let me know. As always, if you made it to the bottom of this page pat yourself on the back and thank you for staying with me.
Much love, always and forever
theartoflife.space 