Journal: 12/09/07

Have I really fallen this far out of touch with the world?  My heart beats, times flies, but nothing changes.  My grades fall, my friends flee.  But nothing changes.  Have I sunk so far into depression that caring not longer is even an option?  Once upon a time tears would have glistened in my eyes and my friends would have felt the wrath that I now pen up.  Change, change.  I can not survive without changing, but I can not change unless i survive.

 

This never-ending circle wears me down.  I dream about things that would be better left in the closet, about boys and girls and white hands that reach out to touch where no child should be touched.  One close friend tells me that I should go see a psychologist..but is that even an option?  Bad enough I force my parents to deal with my alternative love choices, let alone give them reason to label me mentally unstable.

 

But the hands, the hands.  They're in my head, they're in my nightmares.  I want them out so damned badly, but how can I?  They're stuck in there, like my f*****g past. 

 

Want to hear what I wrote about them?  On November 11th of this year, at around 3 AM, so technically November 12th, I woke from a nightmare in a hectic, almost panicked state.  Paranoia doesn't begin to describe what I was going through.

 

"I want this out of my head.  I want to forget the past - blood and wandering hands.  But it won't go away.  I want it out, want to build a wall and save myself from thought.  Out, out.  Damn whispered secrets.  I was too young, too innocent.  Nightmares and memories.  In my head.  I feel like I'm going crazy.  Can't sleep.  I'm so damn scared.  Ever shadow's a memory.  Out of my head, get out.  It hurts so bad.  Can't talk about it, don't know what I'd say.  Don't touch, don't touch me.  So sick of hands, so sick of flesh rubbing on mine.  Reminders.  Get out, get out.  Frantic, paranoids.  Something's going to happen.  But something already has.  i want these demons out of my head."

 

I'm going crazy, i guess.  Should've known it was coming.  Should've known from the moment that those nightmares came back.  I can't even remember, that's the worst part.  I can't remember which of my relatives was coarse enough to sexually abuse a too-young me.  I can't remember whose hands roamed, whose voice whispered that I shouldn't tell.  That nobody'd believe me anyway.  Hell, if I could remember maybe it'd go away. 

 

But it's like my mind has put a block on that part of my past.  It's there, I can feel it.  Maybe if I dig a little deeper, try a little harder.  But I can't.  Ever prod into the past brings back the nightmares.  Every time I get close enough to anyone, male or female, their touch makes me cringe away.  I'm so sick of this.  I crave after touch, I crave after love.  Any idiot can see that I'm like one of those f*****g feral cats - wanting so badly to be loved, but fearful of even accidental brushes. 

 

I can't, though.  I can't even think about touching, can't even consider love.  'cause then here come the memories, ready and willing to eat me alive.  I'm a prisoner to them, they've got me wrapped in chains more real than anything physical.  They keep my heart and soul under a tighter lock and key than anyone even guesses.  My friends say I'm heartless, say my soul is black.  It's all in jest, of course.  But they don't even know what's going on.

 

When am I going to be free?

Reviews

[Calypso]

So great! I can't tell you how many month I have spent looking for a journal like this. I enjoyed this very much. You are able to turn something as ugly as reality into beautiful art.