Thunder wishes it could be the snow

This poem was on a poster on the wall in my 11th grade English classroom:

I am like shattered glass
Cutting those who touch me
I have been broken
I am hard and sharp
People can see through me.
They know I can hurt them
I am never confronted
I am always walked around.
– Lori Gauntlet

It resonated with me then, although I wasn’t quite sure why. Like many things from my youth, I now realize why.

I have always felt broken.

And I have always felt avoided and alone.

I hate it. I hate feeling like some stupid fucking poem, I hate being this melodramatic and this banal, I hate that I don’t have the confidence to do what I want to do, I hate that other people’s opinions even matter to me ever, but they do.

My parents fought a lot. Our house was always tense. When something good was happening, usually my dad would try to ruin it and my mom would finish the job by reacting to him. It didn’t matter what I did, it was not enough, it was never enough. I made myself physically ill because of the stress. I bottled things up inside because letting them out was never allowed. When they inevitably did come to the surface, the results were not pretty. They usually resulted in me screaming at one parent or both parents and then slamming a few doors.

I still do this. At work, I don’t slam doors, but I cry. I cry in the bathroom, I go for a walk and cry. At home I just go slam a door and cry.

I don’t want to cry anymore. I don’t even know why I cry at this point, it’s just my body’s response to anything. Frustration, mostly. I don’t want to yell and scream and be a bitch. I don’t want to have to scream to be heard.

I don’t even really want to talk anymore.

Or leave the house.

Or anything.

I buy clothes and makeup and none of these things make me feel pretty.

I don’t remember the last time I felt actually beautiful.

Or confident.

I don’t know what normal emotions are. I don’t know if the meds aren’t working. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about the dead end job I’m doing again and that I don’t want to be doing but I don’t know what else to do. There is an article about successful female business people in Marie Claire this month. I can’t make myself read it because I don’t take away tips, I take away jealousy, I take away knowing that I am as smart as any of these people but that I do not know how to make the step to where they are. I have surrounded myself, career-wise, with people who talk too goddamn much and don’t listen ever. I don’t know what to do with someone’s undivided attention. I don’t know how to act anymore, I don’t like talking to people anymore.

I feel like I am always being judged and found wanting.

I don’t feel joyful. I don’t really remember the last time I did.

Maybe college.

Maybe.

That was too long ago.

I can’t even write what I want to write because my brain is full of bad things. I feel like every opening paragraph sounds like a suicide note. I don’t really want to kill myself, but I’ve thought about trying. Just because then maybe someone would goddamn hear me screaming.

But I can’t do that. I can’t be that fucking stupid.

I think I make messes around me because I would feel bad making someone else clean them up. If things are a mess, I can’t kill myself because that’s not fair.

I am like shattered glass. I’m a broken glass that someone glued carefully back together so you almost can’t see the fracture lines. But they’re old fractures, and the cracks are coming back. They have been weakened by use.

I want to stop feeling this way.

I don’t even trust my own reactions anymore.

Broken.

Song of the Day: “Kentucky Rain” – Elvis Presley
Today’s Time Waster: Attempting to communicate with other humans.
What I’m Craving: Frontal lobotomy. Or some cake. Whatever.

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