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saitainaWhy is it when someone asks how I am, I smile and tell them I'm fine?
Why is it they believe me?
Why do I want to stand on a rooftop and scream for someone to save me, yet turn away all help when it is offered to me?
Why is it I can ask my mother a million questions about her mental health, pry into her life, her actions, and generally treat her like a criminal, and yet turn away when she asks me, not wanting to be bothered by questions and concerns?
Why is it every time my mother asks me to write a story for her, I find myself wondering how anyone could enjoy the sub standard crap I call writing?
Why is it I've lied for so many years about myself, my esteem, and my mental security, that I am surprised when no one believes I'd rather starve then live in this wretched, ugly, traitorous body? That I'd rather bleed then cry? That I'd rather die, then face one more empty day in a long stretch of them? That I can't see a future worth waking up for?
Why is it I want someone to read this and yet can't stand to show it to anyone?
Edit: Originally supposed to be privatized but I've left it un-blocked as a holding to the original User Info 'mission statement':
Honest and open, my life where nothing is hidden.
Although I would like people to remember this IS my personal journal, and while it is public, it is used AS a journal (diary, whatever), thus it will come off whiney and ranty.
It's where I get my thoughts and head together. Don't like it, fuck off. While I respect reader's opinions, I would ask that you also respect that this is my 'personal space' I'm inviting you into.
Why is it they believe me?
Why do I want to stand on a rooftop and scream for someone to save me, yet turn away all help when it is offered to me?
Why is it I can ask my mother a million questions about her mental health, pry into her life, her actions, and generally treat her like a criminal, and yet turn away when she asks me, not wanting to be bothered by questions and concerns?
Why is it every time my mother asks me to write a story for her, I find myself wondering how anyone could enjoy the sub standard crap I call writing?
Why is it I've lied for so many years about myself, my esteem, and my mental security, that I am surprised when no one believes I'd rather starve then live in this wretched, ugly, traitorous body? That I'd rather bleed then cry? That I'd rather die, then face one more empty day in a long stretch of them? That I can't see a future worth waking up for?
Why is it I want someone to read this and yet can't stand to show it to anyone?
Edit: Originally supposed to be privatized but I've left it un-blocked as a holding to the original User Info 'mission statement':
Honest and open, my life where nothing is hidden.
Although I would like people to remember this IS my personal journal, and while it is public, it is used AS a journal (diary, whatever), thus it will come off whiney and ranty.
It's where I get my thoughts and head together. Don't like it, fuck off. While I respect reader's opinions, I would ask that you also respect that this is my 'personal space' I'm inviting you into.
no subject
Date: 2006-12-13 06:01 pm (UTC)- jess
no subject
Date: 2006-12-30 10:37 am (UTC)