The one you made. Long nights, and the worst days. Lived it all, but I didn’t break.
Every day that I wake up I have to give myself another reason to not give up. But I do. I give myself that reason. I think hard, and close my eyes. Squeeze them tight and scream inside. I hate that I have to do it. I hate that I want to give up. I hate that I am like this. I would give nearly everything to be normal. Normal. I zone out sometimes thinking about that. Just see people smiling and laughing and wonder if they are faking it, like I try to do, or if they are genuinely happy. Then I realize that they are undoubtedly happy. I could be wrong. Everyone has worries, concerns, fears, frustrations, but for the most part, they are normal. They are a part of that societal baseline.
Hubcaps and ashtrays. I was born but I wasn’t raised. The big wheel, the black space. Tried my best but wasn’t praised.
Is it wrong that I have a good day and I want to shout it to the world that “Holy shit, today was a good day!” But then I realize that no one cares about my day, and they would assume I was lying anyway. So I just keep it tucked inside. I try every day to be better at this and that. I want to not care what people think. I want to not feel things. I try to shut it off. I try to shut all of it off. I want the good, the bad, the anger, the happy to all go away. Yes, yes I would. I really would give up the good to get rid of the bad. My bad is too far off the tracks that the train gets pulled so close to derailing. It has come so close so many times. What happens when it does. There would be a crash. But would there be screaming? Would there be blood and tears and crying and screeching and smoke? Would anyone see the fire? No, I imagine not. I genuinely feel it would crash in a remote area of the back woods that no one would see it until far after.
My whole life they said I’d be nothing. Well I’m something. And I would rather be the stray, than be nothing to no one at all.
But that is not really the point, right? I guess the important point is that I have fought it every day for the past however many years that it has shoved its way through my brain, clawing and digging and shredding. I can do it. It is always a challenge and it does not always feel like I can. But I have. And I can. I have friends who have no idea how this feels. And I have people who do. And I have people who have told me to never talk about it again. So… I don’t. Not to them. I shove it deep inside. And I take it out on other things. I take it out on pen and paper, and I scribble and draw. I sing as loud as I dare, until my throat hurts. I play video games. And I have started going out for runs at night, just quick. And just enough to make my lungs feel like they are bleeding. My body hurt, brain clear and the sky dark. That is all I need. It only takes a lap of the block and I am as good as I can get.
Hell is so close to heaven. Hold on, don’t look back. You know we’re better, we’re better than that. Lost and thrown away. You know we’re better, we’re better than that. Cause we are the strays. We are the strays.
I feel like fitting in is a privilege. I had friends that I fit in with. I thought. But I really was just a tag along. But the more I step back and stop talking about things, the more I seem to be able to figure out how to function with people. I have some new friends that I find that I enjoy. I think they enjoy my company. They seem to. But I just plain refuse to ask. I would rather not find out if they don’t. So I tell myself that they do. It works for me. At least right now. And the nice thing about it is that it has been keeping my crazy in check. I’ve had my ups and downs the past few weeks, but surprisingly it has been mostly ups. My OCD has actually been fairly low key. And that has mentally dancing to all of the music in my head.