Sea of Lies

A reflection on a child's resentment towards their parents

I hate this world and all that is in it.  I hate the lies that have been forced in my head throughout my short years. Fourteen. Yes, fourteen years of pure lies from the ones who say they love me. Yet another in an endless sea of lies.  What do they want me to do?  Be exactly like them?  Why would I want to be a sniveling, cowering, senseless being? 

And yet they fed me lies in the form of truth- the best lie of all.  They say I am special and talented.  They say I'm smart and responsible.  No, I am not any of those.  I just pretend that I am for their sake and theirs only.  What a strange loyalty I feel to these tyrants: my captors, my tormentors.  My parents.  What would I have been without them? I would not exist. Yet I was chosen to be born.  Was I?  I had no say in the matter; He put me here.  He can take me away, and yet I feel He's keeping me here out of enjoyment of my torture.

 Why the lies?  Why so many?  Why so untruthful?  Why so many assumptions that I can handle everything you keep throwing at me?  I'm not invincible, yet you think you can keep adding to the already unbearable load.  Why?  Is it not enough that I do everything you ask, and yet is it not good enough?  My best means nothing to you.  I try my best to do what you say, to please your desires so you can get your way.  What am I doing wrong?  Why can't you just love me for who I am? 

As I type this I realize it is not only my parents I'm venting at.  It is the world.  It is my brother.  And yet, it is GOD. Yes, I am angry at GOD. I'm still alive and I am angry. 

And yet, I am broken.  So lost and tortured in my hollow shell that I mutilate to feel alive.  I am a monster, caged and chained from the inside out, and from the outside in.  Through and through I am this undeniably vile thing.  Not worthy to be called by name, I am nothing.  I sink into the nothingness and cry stupid tears.  I hate the tears.   Such defiant signs of weakness.  He who cries knows his soul. 

I want to leave this world behind, but would GOD accept me? Nothing I can do could ever be good enough for him, I understand that.  His son gave humanity a debt that can never be repaid.  All for His glory.  What would it be like, to see his glory, his power? 

And yet I must ask:  what would it be like to be loved by Him?  To be held in his arms and loved in the most pure, true form?  If only I could be loved…  All I want is for his love to pierce my heart, fill my soul, flood my mind, cleanse my spirit, and most of all give me a reason to live.  Or die.  To die and go to that love that I long for and can't get enough of. 

And yet, wouldn't I want to stay here to show others that love?  I must…right?  For if we experience and know his love yet do not share it with anyone else, would that not be his love, wasted?  Would it not be selfish to hold something so healing from a world so corrupt and dying?  And yet we think: they do not deserve it.  So what! Did we?! Heavens no, we didn't! And we still don't.

I look out over the congregation from my seat in the choir stand.  I can't help but be cynical and amazed.  All these people, faithful parishioners coming every week.  This is what they believe.  There is their leader, in a frenzy about the healing coming from their GOD.  This is their leader, who in his fervor and passion shouts at what he knows GOD will do.  And I look at their faces: some twisted in agony.  Some stained with tears of joy, gratefulness, conviction.  And then there is the energy that courses through us all. A figment of their imaginations, perhaps?  Yet I feel it too.  So not only a figment of theirs.  A figment of mine.  Is it? 

I look on, and I cannot help but say: such faith.

And I look at myself, and I say: such hatred.  Such rage.  Such loathing.

For myself, there is a hatred, a loathing so strong as to destroy  me someday, so much so to the point of repulsion, so unrelenting as to one day utterly destroy me.  And I know nothing else except this hatred of myself, fueled by mistake after mistake.  Failure after failure.  Because that’s all I am.  A failure, a mistake, a disappointment.

I love how medical professionals say that writing helps to vent stress. Does it?  Or does it fuel the fires of hatred and rage?  For me, it does both.  Somehow, I find myself at home in this familiar hatred and loathing.  And it is not for others.  It is for me.  I might dislike many people but the greatest secret is that I loath myself more than all.

I thirst for blood, but it is never that of anyone else.  No.  It is my own blood I lust for, my own destruction i seek.  To ruin, with myself!

It is better to hate oneself than hate another.

Author's Note

Honest opinion on rhetoric and content is greatly appreciated.