Its bleeding. I know. Its so wrong on so many levels.
Surely this isn’t healthy.
I’ve been doing it as long as I can recall. I gouge my scalp with my nails and I pick on particular areas of my scalp until it bleeds. This is when I’m at my worst. On a good day, my hands would wander up to my forehead and I’d give myself a little head rub but that’s all. No blood between the nails. My ephemeral distraction from my emotional scab picking to picking on a real scab. Pick pick pick.
I haven’t been blogging lately and when asked why, I say I have nothing to blog about. That’s a lie. I’m just afraid of being candid with myself in here especially on certain topics. I don’t like to air my dirty laundry and admit to my many shortcomings. Why then do I blog for the world to see when I am afraid to see myself? Why don’t I just keep a diary?
Truth be told, I tried and I found it a convenient literacy for denial and lies. When I write for myself, I become unrepentant and I mask every bit of ugliness in me. It has always been easier for me to lie to myself than to deceive others. I hate that I was silenced in my own world and I craved the bravery of honesty at the off chance of someone finding my words and giving enough a damn about me to want to unmask my demons.
I am no Anne Rice. My journals will never be used in class rooms or be made into a series of films. If someone is to find my diary or journal or my many scrapbooks under a profusion of Bambi collectibles, they will find more value in the snow globes, figurines and my 1970’s Bambi by The Little Golden Book on ebay as compared to my mindless ramblings in one of my Mole skin cover diaries. I am terrified of my mortality and that no one would ever know me so I blog. I blog so the world can see the beauty and ugliness in me. I blog because I’m afraid one day I get hit by a bus and my dad would never know the daughter he had. *Someone please pass him my blog if such an event takes place*. I blog because I can’t imagine life continuing without me so I hope my words continue beyond my perishability. I’m making my mark in here. Be it a drop in the ocean, at least I’m part of it.
So this is me being honest. If there is a single entry in here that holds any value of brutal honesty, this would be it. I know some of you complain that my entries are too long. Well, tough. There is a lot to be honest about.
Most days I hate leaving the house to walk amongst others because I’m afraid others will see my being different as being weird and vile. I’m afraid when people look at me, they are scanning me over and making a mental check list of all my flaws. When stared/looked at, all I can think of is wishing I was invisible. I used to phsycially abuse my step-sister and brothers until I was 12 because their mother did the same to me. I love my family more than I care to. My mother doesn’t know that I know all her lies and that despite it all, I still bloody love her and I hate myself for letting her get to me.
I absolutely can not stand people who are shallow and pass criticisms and hurtful comments of others for the jocular exchange of banter. Yet they can’t take it when it is thrown back at them. I hate when I become part of conversations as such and participate in them in order to prove to others that I ‘have a sense of humor’ or that I CAN ‘relax’ and ‘chill’ and not take myself ‘too seriously’. I have never been one to make direct attacks with shallow insults and I have lately become this person I once hated simply because it is easier to agree than to convince them otherwise. I am ashamed of ever mocking the flaws of strangers that I myself possess. No more.
I am extremely hard on myself especially when I feel I have failed someone I love. I would rather if I didn’t try loving them than to hurt them with my love. I am dramatic. I am emotional and sensitive. I am insecure. I am jealous. I seek acceptance from strangers. I’m an alcoholic. I’ve cut down because I can’t afford it not because I don’t need it. I am spoilt by my father so much so that I do not know the value of money apart from the value of love. I hate people who hide their insecurities by putting others down and not realize how transparent their motives are. It breaks my heart that some people will still vote for George Bush. I can’t drive. The last time I was behind the wheel, I almost killed someone.
My father is the only man I have ever loved. I tried to love the opp sex but none of the ones I have been with had ever been able to hurt me and that is how I have learned to measure love. Two whom I have cried over stemmed from loathe, not love. Although some have tried blaming my past experience on my sexual preference, I am self-assured in knowing that it is innate. I have truly been in love twice. I’m afraid of success because I am terrified of failure and therefor am reluctant in ever trying. I blame my childhood for who I am today simply because my psychiatrist Mrs.Peggy told me I can and it seems like the universally prescribed anecdote for self-loathe.
I am dramatic because of my emotions, everything is intensified. But when shit hits the fan, I can be as calm and as collected as the sea after a storm. I can tell you my secrets but I might not confide in you. I have too much pride. I’m a lonely person. It hurts when I am taken for granted. I hate being wrong but I will always admit to it when I know I am. I am stubborn and incredibly difficult to reason with. I chase people away with my selfishness. I stop eating when I’m depressed. I believe in God but I have stopped going to church because I am ashamed of my sexuality in a hall full of Christians. I try to buy love but it always blows up in my face. I never leave home without makeup, not even to the 7-11 cos I’m ugly without it. I intimidate strangers because I don’t want them to know I’m fragile. I have no self-confidence. I’m a good actress.
Sometimes I look through my phone book for someone to have coffee with and out of 300 plus names, not a single person I could call on . The ones I would call are either in different continents or too busy with their lives. I only have 2 people in Melbourne I consider real friends. They keep me sane without really knowing it. So for those who think I’m some social butterfly, I am far from it. I am self-suficcient but at times I crave for a change in my environment. I have had sex with man to escape who I really am by being someone I am not. I am self-destructive. I am a sucker for love. I expect too much from it. I am never satisfied.
Maybe I’ll stop feeling like shit from holding so much in. I need to stop being so angry.