Entry 25 - Killing The White Knight. She Made Us Uncomfortable Anyway. It's Better This Way. Trust Us.

I can’t decide if I’m honest. I can’t think of what I am. All I see are the images of what I’m not. Always lacking. Imperfect. Injuries that won’t heal. I’m a liar. I must be. Or maybe not. I see things that don’t exist. I will them to happen. I know things that don’t exist and am confused when I realize no one else knows them. I wait for something that may never happen, like a dream. I ready myself for things that don’t exist. That no one else seems to see. I betray my own ideals and hate myself when I try to talk the way other people do. See what they see. Do what they do. Guilt for all the things that should have worked and didn’t, or worse, guilt from the things that did work. Am I weak for wanted to be like other people? Or strong for conforming and doing what is expected? Neither, both. I don’t know. I itch. I can’t sleep. My mind picks these things apart and shows me all the things I shouldn’t be able to see. Everyone tells me they aren’t real. That I’m wrong. That I don’t know what I’m talking about. Little pinpricks making more insecure and torturing me with this slideshow that can’t be shut off until my ears are ringing and I’m screaming in my own mind to stop. But it doesn’t. I fail. I understand, but can’t apply these external rules everyone else seems to understand intuitively. I feel like a hypocrite. A giant hypocrite spinning in little circles around and around and around until I think there is no me left. Or worse, there is a me, one that is empty. Scooped out and hollow. Failure in every voice, thought, deed, each one a private little devil come to tell me exactly what I’ve done to displease the world. I fail and I fail and I fail. Trapped in something that doesn’t exist. Like drowning in my own air. It’s all fake, but everyone tells me it’s real. That the illusions and the rules matter. I can see it, I guess. I could stop them, if I was better. I don’t. I like them. I need them, even if they lie. They’ve built a bottomless pit in me, one that expands with every breath, needing their approval. I keep coming back to it, accepting the lie because it means having friends. Having a family. Having an identify for one more day. But the lie eats at me. I keep feeding it, waiting for that pleasurable sense of satisfaction, of certainty, of believe that other people seem to have. It never comes.

I fail and I fail and I fail, but I need it so badly, even though it doesn’t exist. The woman I could have been fades from the mirror and no image is left for me to strive for, just the lies handed to me by the ones I need. Like it matters. The world turns to ash and I become the culmination of a lifetime of hatred, lies, dishonor, and disappointment. I see only material, no polish, no joy. No substance. Just the lies people keep handing around. Drinking from as if it were the fountain of youth. When I drink, it burns.

It should be perfect. The cup is gold. The liquid beautiful. It’s poison I keep drinking to be like them. Like something. Not myself. But it’s only rage and restlessness at the bottom of the cup for me. I insult my every action by buying into all of it. I hate.

They say anger is said to be the ultimate state of victimhood. Of impotence. It is defensiveness, unthinkingness that only happens when the human soul is so completely trapped, its only option is untargeted violence. I feel trapped.