Vulnerability is being nice to someone fucking you, only to realise they aren’t nice, they just wanted to fuck you.
I do it every fucking time.
Masturbating as a natural painkiller for a fucked up toothache.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve been told my life will get better.
My mum has always tried to reassure me of hope.
A set of false promises made with the best of intentions.
When I was younger I perceived these false promises as lies and resented her for the hype of hope, but I understand why she did it now.
It feels as though, things have never become better.
My life is merely a set of exchanges.
If not an emotional abusive father, then a tormenting brother…
If not that, then a guy who mistreats me, shatters me. Breaks me.
If not that, then my brother is out of control on meth.
If not that, then the its the realisation that I can only ever count on one person to love me and finding out I have to turn into that person before it’s too late.
This is the first time in years, where I’ve felt helpless. I can’t even leave. I have to stay.
Sometimes I wake up with imprints of my fingers or hand on my thigh.
I put it down to stress during dreams. Possibly fear.
Either way, there’s a physical imprint, a mark on my body, to remind me of any internal and subconscious feelings going on in my head.
It worries me when this happens too many days in a row.
For the most part our freedom is measured by how much money, power, time, physical space we have or how many licences and laws allow us to do things. But, I think we have it all wrong. Maybe freedom can be measured by how little we have. That isn’t an uncommon theory as many believe money and attainment of it imprisons us within the system. But, it’s more than just that.
Having no one to love you, no one you care about or love in return, no power and pure helplessness. Worthlessness. Maybe this is freedom.
Knowing you can do anything because you no longer are dictated by the love bestowed upon you.
On the bus, sitting patiently in traffic until I arrive at my stop. At work.
I now have a job.
A jobby job.
Nervous, excited… Anticipating a payslip.
Rolling up. Lighting up. Smoking up. Inhaling. Exhale.
The meaning of being a single girl is realising your hand is stained with Subway meatball sauce after thinking a dude is hot and realising you climbed up the wrong tree only to find solace in a 30-minute workout tape followed by chocolate.
It’s been two years since this blog started.
Gracias for the ongoing community you have provided for me to find solace and maintain sanity.
My words escape me.
Out of control,
They run from me.
I chase them.
But by then it’s too late.
The thought’s left.
A mind broken.