Chapter Text
November 14th 2008
“Depression is being colorblind and constantly being told how colorful the world is.” -Atticus Poetry
Even simple conversations drain every ounce of energy. Getting up in the morning is a difficult task.
Who cares about brushing their teeth? Who cares about changing clothes? Who gives a damn about anything?
There’s a voice in my head saying that I should end it all. I know I should, but I also know how my mom would react. She’ll probably blow her brains out with my father's shotgun. She’ll cry and scream in the shower until her vocal cords give out. She’ll drink until she can’t remember her own son’s name.
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November 16th 2008
“Guilt is the thief of life.” - Anthony Hopkins
Some days when she's drunk too much, she thinks I'm my dad. She tries to do things to me. How can she, a grown woman, mistake me for my father? The man who left us years ago? He deserved to get custody of me. God knows that he would’ve treated me a bit better than her. He wouldn’t guilt me into doing whatever he wanted. He would probably beat the ever-living shit out of me, but that’s better than getting on my knees and pretending that she’s my savior. I know she wants me to preach to the Lord. She wants me to pray to the Lord. To ask him to make me not act like that. I know that’s not going to work, but she forces me to pray anyway. She cycles through a rotation of boyfriends. There’s the alcoholic, there’s the stoner turned off by her religious views, there’s the touchy one, and there’s the one that he has now. He doesn’t fit any of the previous archetypes. He’s different. And that terrifies me.
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November 24th 2008
“The body remembers what your mind forgets.”-Martha Manning
I hate my body. Scars cover every inch. Boys shout at me on the street. I have no idea how many times boys have tried to or have groped me. How they comment on my body like I’m some kind of object. At this point I just let them shout and grope me because I know that they are acknowledging me. I just want to act like myself, but I can’t because that’ll make me stand out more. And we don’t want that do we?
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January 2nd 2009
“Touch has a memory.” -John Keats
I want someone to touch me. I don’t care how or why. I just want someone to touch me. Even if it’s in the most disgusting way possible. I want to know that people care about me enough to touch my body. I want someone to hold me in their arms and tell me that everything is okay. I’m so desperate for love that I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything if you just touch me. I don’t care if you beat the ever living shit out of me or touch me in places that I don’t want to be touched. At least it’s something. I just need to know that I’m desired by someone. I need to know that someone sees me. That someone cares. I need someone to touch me. Please please please please.