rainies | (no subject)

And this, ladies and gents, is today's topic. Yeah, I'm nothing. My feelings are nothing. Just play pretend, right? That's why I want to kill myself over it. It's fine, because it isn't real. I guess it wouldn't be real if I took us all out because of it, either.

This isn't a threat, by the way. I'm hanging on because I can't off my whole family just because I want to swallow bleach. Doesn't mean I don't think about it all the time. I should start counting how many times a day it crosses my mind. Today, thought about what kind of pills I could take; I was preparing dinner, physically speaking. Internally, the same old.

I don't do the whole "cry for help" thing. I still don't know how to do it. Been doing my best recently - talked it out when it started. Yesterday, the day before? I had a few good ones there, where I didn't think about it much. Then it hit and hasn't left since. Everything tastes like ashes. I wanna get over it. I want to start over. That's the thing, though. Starting over doesn't mean just pulling a blank slate. Feels like this shit clings to me like scars. Can't wash it off no matter what. What I mean by starting over is like, I want to be reborn. Stop existing, completely, end this one for good and be born again, or not, I wouldn't mind a permanent dirt nap. Like, I just want it to stop. The thoughts, the waking up every morning. The avoiding this by not being here, when my existence is the same all the time anyway. I don't want to go dormant, I want to die. There's a difference.

So I'm gonna be honest here. Maybe it'll hurt more than it's worth, but talking is the last thing I haven't tried, outside of things that might actually be harmful for us all; I'd get drunk but knowing how sick it made us last time, I can't do that to the others. And I'm not talking hangover sick or too much alcohol sick, I'm talking like, actual harm to the body sick. I'd take sedatives and go comatose but I don't trust myself not to take a handful. I don't feel like I necessarily have the required self-control here.

Don't hate me because of it, though. I don't want to be this way. I'm not thinking about harming us because I want to hurt us. I just want to stop hurting.

The things that didn't happen;

I didn't lose anyone. I never had a brother. I made that up for shits and giggles, to roleplay grief, to use up resources meant for people who deserve them, because I'm a dirty little thief that gets off on stealing attention and sympathy. The feeling I have, that I've had a chunk of flesh the size of a small child torn off my right side, that's all my imagination. The feeling I'm half of what I'm supposed to be and I've got no direction for my life, no goals, just drifting about, counting my failures. How I can't stop the cycle. What kind of justification do you want for this? What'll make it real enough that I can claim my grief?

People lose people. I'm supposed to just get over it. It wasn't me. Back in stone age, most children died, most people didn't make it to 30. I don't live in the fucking middle-ages, though. My whole life, I thought I'd bury my parents with Daniel. We didn't talk about it, but it was obvious. We'd go through the house together, pack it all away, share the things between ourselves we wanted to keep, inheritance aside. The house would probably have been split between us. We'd sell it, unless Danny wanted to keep it. I'd have been fine with that, honestly. I didn't want it - I liked it in the city - but I figured he'd have a family at that point. Honestly? I might have talked it through with mum and dad, had them sign it all up to him in that case. It's got a nice yard. The old tree we had a treehouse in, you could probably still hang a swing from that. First floor room I grew up in, with a view to the rest of the neighbourhood rooftops, since the walls are mostly covered by trees, bushes, tall fences. The visual I have of the place is tinted with dawn light, pinks and baby blues, drifting shreds of clouds.

But it wasn't like that because the first funeral we had was Danny's. Don't remember that. Just remember feeling, thinking it was pointless, there wasn't anything to bury. Conclusion for conclusion's sake since me and Dad both knew he was gone. Mum wouldn't have it, but she went with it in the end. Probably because of how out of it I was. The cops questioned me over it but I didn't have anything for them. Opera house this opera house that. Nobody would have believed me. Think I spat it out the way it went once and got a pat on the shoulder and told to go home and get some sleep. The whole time period is a blur. The funniest thing is that I was the one who reported him missing to begin with. I told them he was dead but I didn't know where he was. They asked me how? Well I don't fucking know. I just had a feeling. Couldn't explain it. They didn't like that very much, but there was nothing to pin it on me with, and I guess the way I was in the end was enough to convince them. I didn't have to act. I was fucking out of my mind. Stayed with my parents for about two months because I couldn't go back home, I can't remember how long I was out of work, just that I quit at the end of that. Just couldn't do it. Anything normal felt like suicide or pissing on his grave. I didn't want to go on but going on in general just seemed unfair to begin with. It should have been me. I'm the elder. I was meant to go first. I was meant to protect him.

And following from that, I'm not a rape victim, either. That didn't happen, because the first thing didn't happen. I didn't start going to bars and getting so smashed I couldn't remember my own name, going home with whoever wanted to take me. And I didn't report those, either. The times when I'd cry and beg for it to stop because it hurt or because I was freaking out and couldn't breathe or feel my legs. I didn't remember enough to report it, first off, already said I was blackout drunk, but the problem was more that I signed up for it, yeah? I consented. Just because I changed my mind when it wasn't fun doesn't make it rape. Happened two times. Not too bad of a score for how much I fucked around, but I don't feel lucky. I remember the fights I got into more than I remember those, but I wasn't scared of the fights. It felt good to hit someone until my knuckles were that particular shade of blackberry juice on skin, have someone throw me into a brick wall so hard that my vision went white and then into the street so that I had holes in my knees and fingerprints on my arms. Huge bruises on my ribs, thighs, no memories of what hit me there. I got into so many fucking fights for a while there. The first six months, something like that. That time I was like a fucking zombie anyway, living off of my savings between jobs.

Too tired to touch further than that. Feels like anything past that doesn't matter anyway. From the second Danny died, my life didn't matter anymore. It's this transition period where I turned from someone alive to someone already dead that holds any weight. Except it doesn't, because it's just roleplay.

I'm just a figment of someone's imagination. A way to get attention and sympathy. I don't even exist. What does any of it matter.