“It’s okay to say, I let this happen to me because I had no self-respect, and chose not to hurt the other person – because I didn’t believe it was okay to fight for myself at the expense of someone else. In fact, at times, I didn’t even know that I could fight for myself. Fight, even at all. I didn’t see how I was being manipulated. I didn’t understand ‘coercion’. I’m so used to hearing, “Baby, don’t be like that”, and feeling guilty – actually feeling remorseful because I’m disappointing someone else.”
“No doubt sparked by my gloriously inappropriate mother asking, “What would you do if I died?”, and having just painfully dreamt that she actually did, I’ve decided to leave this here, an open letter – in my mental sanctuary, so that at no point, ever, will there be any question as to what is to be done, or any things left unsaid.”
“I want to write to kill.”
These words are sounding in my mind, being fueled by the insatiable anger and anxiety I continually wake drenched in.
I am hateful, suicidal, murderous, aggressive, violent, reckless, hopeless, lost.
I am being dragged by my emotions again.
This I know.
“Love and Loss are holding hands, gazing into each other’s eyes and laughing heartily at the wrath in their wake.”
“A person cannot be broken. The mind has no parts, no structure, no known manifestation. If you’re broken, what is? Your body? That can heal; even bones can be mended. Your mind? Your personality? Your soul? Show me how it’s broken?”
” I don’t plan what I wear. I throw stuff on and decide whether to change or not by trying to label myself as others would when they see me.
Everybody does it. Oh, there goes the punk. He’s followed by the geek. The goth is close behind, and there comes the overly-dressed drama queen. The last guy fell behind because it’s noticeably harder to walk when you have that much swag.
I stood before the mirror, having changed out of ‘the emo kid’ outfit, and tried to stereotype myself. I frowned for a second, and then it came to me.
I was good to go.”
“I’m a student. I get 100 bucks a week, and when I draw it out, the ATM gives it to me in 20s – as if to keep me grounded.
“Man, you broke. Let me help you ration.”
I hate FNB. If they aren’t reminding me of how broke I am, they’re taking away my money. Every time I draw out I can buy one less cup of awful campus coffee.
The only time I ever rolled in the dough was when I tried to make roti off an internet recipe.”