Think of this as a freewriting exercise. Around maybe 30 hours ago, I got a call informing me of the death of someone I cared about deeply. Ever since I went on to write and schedule some of my posts, reblogged a few posts, and fulfilled the roles required of me. I tweeted on Twitter, even had gone to write a comedy post that will be posted tomorrow on an alt account.
Whenever people ask "What's wrong?", or more simply "What's up?", there's an automatic response that comes out of me like 95% of the time "Nothing". Nothing is wrong, nothing is happening, what about you? An attempt to move what I view as the hot seat to whoever is talking.
Inside me, there's a feeling that often screams "No one cares!", it serves as motivation to a conclusion I have made internally a long time ago to committing to not sharing. As each day went by I felt more committed, until it solidified itself as "You have already gone so far, you might as well keep going".
I was always taught that feelings are a weakness that even knowing otherwise doesn't make a difference, it is engraved into my code. I try to remember otherwise, and I sometimes act against that code, but most of the time, I fail. It also serves as a comforting safe space, no relationship will be complicated with anyone if your feelings are bottle inside, right?
The day after I learned of my mother's death, I actually packed my bag and went to school. The day after I was raped by a restaurant where I worked as a kid, then physically abuse the next day by a family, the day after all of that I packed my bag and went to school. A pattern was established; shit happens, pack your bag, and go to school.
Sometimes, it feels like I am watching myself pretending everything is fine. And sometimes, it feels like everything is fine because someone else seems to carry all that burden. The issue is, I never manage to combine both. I am either this talking body that has nothing to say, or I am the one carrying the feelings but have no mouth to speak with.
So later in life, I stand in front of you, you ask "what's wrong?". And with all my power I try to talk that you could see my lips moving a little, but eventually, I have no control. In the end, you look at someone who silences "unfeeling", "untouched", "unaffected", "cruel", and just "heartless".
There's a lot to say. A lot you tell yourself, a lot to go through, but you do that alone. I wish everything would have gone differently. But, that's it, it is over.