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I didn’t mean for this to happen, but it occurred to me the other day that every single person I’m friends with is broken in some way or another.
I am friends with people who had abusive parents, who were in abusive relationships, who have severe depression, anxiety, trauma, PSTD, you name it. Now, obviously, with this generation, this isn’t so surprising. We’re all pretty fucked up, and unlike previous generations, we’re actually admitting it, and, again unlike previous generations, a lot of us are actually actively working on getting better. But this is different. I seek out broken people. I find the most broken people that I can and I take them under my wing, and I make sure they know they have someone who cares about them and is always available to talk if they need someone.
The way I see it, these are the people who are most likely to understand or appreciate me. But I often forget you cannot understand or appreciate someone for their problems unless you yourself face those same problems. They can have a vague, general understanding, but unless they were in my head, dealing with my psychological time displacement and horrible thoughts of self pain and hatred, they won’t ever really get me. But, while we may not be able to truly understand one another, we at least attempt. We embrace. We do not turn away. I am looking to help people not feel so alone, because I’ve been so alone, and it is awful.
But this goes beyond all that. I’ve covered that before. I’ve talked at length about how I seek out people to befriend so they don’t have to feel as lonely as I’ve felt. That’s boring, familiar territory, and I don’t want to tread it yet again. That’s why I say this goes beyond all that, because to me, broken people, really broken people, are the most normal of us all. We recognize our weaknesses instead of denying them, even if said weaknesses are what’s keeping us broken, and we are ecstatic when good things come our way because they so rarely do. We are the most in tune with ourselves, our emotions, and everything. We are the most human of the humans that I have ever known.
I am not saying this to say one type of person is better than another. Please don’t try and think that’s what I’m getting at here, because it’s not. All I’m saying is that it is nice to have people like myself. Broken people. Because we admit we’re broken, and too many don’t, and if only more would, they may be able to change what they don’t like and really focus on getting to be the best them they could be. They’re so scared of admitting defeat or showing signs of weakness, that they hide behind this ever present perpetual myth of “everything is fine” with a laugh and a smile and selfie, and yet if they could just be broken, admit they’re broken, in some way or some form for a little bit of time, they may just like who they could really be.
Maybe I’m wrong. It’s possible. I can be wrong about all kinds of stuff. But what I’m saying is there’s no shame in your brokenness, in your weakness, in your sadness. There is no shame in you.
You are broken.
You are beautiful.
I have come to a decision.
There is something rotten inside of me, that cannot be fixed. No matter the work, no matter the length of time spent on it, the effort put into it, it cannot be fixed. I am rotten, deep inside of myself, and it’s just something I am going to have to live with. People will try and tell me otherwise, say things like “You’re not rotten, you’re just hard on yourself!” but no, rest assured, I am rotten. Some part of me, deep, deep down inside, is rotten and will continue to rot for the rest of my life. The sooner I come to terms with and accept that, the sooner I can move on perhaps.
To clarify, this rot doesn’t make me do anything. It doesn’t make hurt myself or hate other people, it doesn’t make me have terrible impulses or anything like that. No. It’s simply something that I can feel inside of me, that I know shouldn’t be there, that I know not everyone else has, if anyone else, and that makes me sick in certain ways and makes me look at the world in certain ways. This rot had to start somewhere, but where exactly is increasingly hard to pinpoint. I could blame my parents for it, but that’s become drawn out and tired, even if not at all untrue. Could blame all the people who’ve hurt me, but then others would come to their aide, screeching “But you need to take responsibility!”
I need to take responsibility for how shitty other people treated me, via their own decision to do so? Okay. Sure.
Do I want the rot fixed? Probably not. It’s how I know to cope and survive. The rot is a part of me. Sounds sick to say, but it’s true, and I am no longer in the vein of saying things that aren’t sick, because that’s what I am. Sick. Sick and rotten. Part of it I’m sure can be attributed to the fact that when enough people tell you for a long enough period of time that something is wrong with you, that you’ll believe something is wrong with you. Weird, right? Almost like peoples opinions on you has an effect or something. “Oh, don’t pay any attention to what anyone thinks about you!” As if it’s that fucking easy. You’re not rotten. What I am sincerely tired of, however, is being told I’m not rotten. People who aren’t me, who don’t have to deal with my problems on a day to day basis making computer desk medical analysis of a person they don’t even fucking know. You aren’t me. Stop fucking tell me what you think I am or how you think I work.
And stop telling me things will get better. There’s a difference between betterment and false hope. I’ve accepted that things will, in fact, not get better. I accepted that a long time ago, and accepting that reality doesn’t make me a weaker person. It makes me accepting of my limits and capabilities, forcing me to focus on the things I can actually achieve or accomplish. No. Things will never “get better”, but they may, with a little bit of acceptance and effort, become “ok”, and I’m fine with that. Stop trying to get me to believe things will get better, because when you do, you’re only instilling in me this false sense of security in the future that, when it never comes, as it never does no matter how hard I work or try, only makes me more crestfallen that before you instilled said false sense of security. Got it?
I am rotten, and I am at peace with myself being this way.
And I wouldn’t have it any other fucking way.
It’s shocking sometimes how what makes you want to kill you can also feel like the only thing that really understands how you feel, even if it’s selfishly doing so to preserve its own existence. This illness is a parasite, and we are the host.
I have developed the absolute best mindset to how to go on, day by day, and that is to hate existence so much that I need to survive simply to spite it for putting me here in the first place; to show existence that I’m better than it is. I fucking hate life. I hate that I have to endure it. I hate that it was thrust upon me without any decision on my part, and now I just am expected to live through it, because to do the opposite is “selfish” or “cowardly” (hot take, they’re not), but now I’m realizing that my best weapon available to me in fighting to continue onwards is to show life what a prick it is.
Spite. Spite is what’s kept me going. Spiting the people who were mean to me growing up, the people who hurt me that I loved, the bad experiences that made me the bitter, cynical broken bitch that I am. I’m not staying alive because I enjoy it, I’m staying alive to prove to life, and these people, that guess what, you’re not better than me. I don’t make a whole lot of money, but despite that I’m still doing what I love for a living (writing, making art, etc), which is more than most people can say. I followed my dreams and they ruined me, but I’m doing it, and that’s something I can applaud myself for. It’s hard to find things to hopeful about, but you know what I realized? Not only am I working on showing life I’m better than it, but I’m also working towards an overall end goal: the eventuality of my death!
Having goals is important, that’s a thing your facebook friends who share posts from pages like “Moms Against Cynicism” say, right? Try and have a bright outlook, set some goals and achieve them? Well now I am. I’m actively working towards eventually dying of old age, and when I reach it, I will feel so good about having stayed alive long enough to have achieved it! Sometimes the seemingly bleakest outlook can be spun into the most hopelessly positive one after all.
Listen, it’s the healthiest coping mechanism I’ve got, alright?
What exactly happens to our brains that makes us lose our imagination and wonderment? When we’re children, we can play make believe all day, live in pretend lands and be so much more open and perceptive to ideas. So what exactly is it that kills that? And don’t be a smartass and say “age” or some stupid bullshit, because I guarantee it’s not that. There’s plenty of adults who are still imaginative and such, so it’s definitely not getting older that does it. Personally, I think it’s other people that does it. Others start to make fun of you or say you’re being childish (what? a child being childish?! oh no!) and so you start to adhere to what “growing up” means, leaving behind all the things that brought you joy, happiness and comfort.
I think of all the deaths you have to endure in life, the worst has to be your own childhoods.
The death of your adolescence is weird because it isn’t one that you actively recognize is happening. One day you just sort of stop doing the things you’ve always loved doing. I remember when I was a little girl I’d play with my toys in my room or the backyard, making entire stories and plotlines that carried through day after day, and then one day I decided, because someone told me I was getting too old to be doing so, that I wasn’t going to do it that day. That one day became another day, and another day, and another day and so on and so forth until soon I hadn’t touched my toys in ages. Thankfully, being the anal retentive weirdo I am, I did go back and finish the “story” that had played out over the years for my own closure, but after that…never again. The thing that made me happy, the things that kept me company, I just tossed aside like they’d never given me anything at all, all because someone told me I was getting “too old”. I was 11.
I think that’s why I became a writer, more than anything else, is because I still get to play with characters and story, just in a “mature, adult” way. Bullshit. The thing is, because I was no longer allowed to play pretend, I turned myself into a character, and did horrible things to myself on purpose for the guise of being interesting, and viewed the abuse and trauma I went through as my “prologue”. I was a very sick child, who’s become a slightly less sick adult, and all because I was told to stop expressing myself at a certain age, because society thinks it’s “weird”. Because of this, I no have no idea what I am, or didn’t for the longest time. Only in the last few years have I started to even try and decide who I am, and think of myself more as an actual person and not just a character in a very depressing soap opera. We need to start letting kids stay creative and imaginative and stop squashing their open minds. We need to stop turning happy kids into unhappy adults.
When I was a little girl, I didn’t have an imaginary friend. A lot of kids did, but I never did. The reason is because I couldn’t have real friends, so why would an imaginary one want to be my friend?