It felt like a kiss

Having been more or less robbed of my Christmas I silently made plans for New Year's. I refuse to spend the last hours, minutes and seconds of this decade with my tradition-hating mother, so I've arranged to meet up with S to go to some party. I hope she'll be wearing her wedding cake-dress. 

When the bells ring out the old and in the new I'll be keeping my fingers crossed, hoping that the coming year will bring me back to an empty house and some renewed peace of body and mind. And for every second of every minute a soft but nagging voice will be whispering in my ear.

Be careful what you wish for

(War is over)

It's begun. At breakfast my mother started blabbering about something nonsensical, I don't even remember what, and I had to stop her when she finally took it too far. For a few seconds she was dead silent before she told me that "if your father had said that you would have agreed with him. You always did".

For Christmas she gave me a large portion of Guilt, and a book. She said "this one you will probably be able to relate to", conveniently forgetting what I had told her about reading in the past.

I gave her nothing. It seems to have upset her a great deal.

Merry whatever and all that

...and you might say "ok, so your mother came home, big deal"?, but it is a big deal. For once my rich people Christmas at my dearest friend's house isn't going to happen. Her family hates my mother and she hates them back equally. So now she wants us to celebrate her coming home. Why not just throw a party for the official end of the world? Why not gaze moronically at the sky as the first bombs fall through the air? In reality of course, the celebration part is a lie. She just doesn't want to be left alone, so she uses me as an excuse, as always. This Christmas is going to be sort of like a plane crash: horrifying and tragic, but at the same time you just can't help but look.

Ahhhhhhhhhh (low)

I knew it. It was all too good to be true. From the very first sound of keys in the lock I froze, seeing and feeling how a fragile world built on sand suddenly and instantly collapsed before my eyes. An all too familiar voice broke the silence and my heart, but most of the damage was already done. Mother is home. At the moment she's in the living room dancing to Twist and Shout, her high heels clattering across the wooden floor. I myself am contemplating different ways of killing someone, but none of them seem attractive enough. Maybe poison.

You know you got me goin', now
just like I knew you would

Imagine no possessions, I wonder if you can

Now is the time of year when you're supposed to show the world what a selfless person you are by spending money on precious gifts for your family and friends. I don't do that, my love is always selfish and distrustful. I buy people things, not so that they will love me but so that if they ever decide to leave me there will still be some physical evidence left of whatever relationship we once had. Instead of elusive memories something will be there to feel and to touch, and someone will be able to pick it up and say "look, it's here, it's real". I know it doesn't work that way, but it's an obsession I can't get rid of, like so many others.

My mother tried once. I had bought her a porcelain figurine of a young woman holding a child, for a birthday I think. She said she loved it but placed it right on the edge of the fireplace mantle in the dining room so that someone would accidentally break it. And eventually they did. Mother's hollow excuses made me begin to despise the hypocrisy of the so called altruistic love.

Since then I don't buy people things for their sake but for my own, to make myself a little bit more real in their eyes. It's a useless compromise, but it's the one I've got. At least for now.

You've got mail

So cute ♥

A lesson learned

The most important thing I've come to realize after spending some time with my repressed memories is that it wasn't my fault. It couldn't have been. Maybe deep down I've always known that, but guilt is a burden that sometimes becomes too easy to accept and carry with you like a constantly present raincloud above your head. What if I had done anything, just anything, differently? What if I had said something, or maybe not said something I shouldn't have said, what if...

What if...?

Those never ending thoughts are torture for the heart, and for the longest time they threatened to break me in a million little pieces. I carried them with me, deep inside, and never allowed them to penetrate the skinn. I closed myself and drained my body of air, hoping I could suffocate the nagging feelings of guilt and all those unanswered questions. But of course it didn't work.

I know he loved me very much. He was the one who was always there for me, who took me to ballet practice and told me I was good even though I wasn't. He took the time to read me bedtime stories, to help me with my homework and eventually to watch me try on dussins of pairs of shoes during end of season sales when I knew he hated doing just that.

He may have ended up letting me down, but now I know who I want to blame for what happened. It's just so damn hard.

Up and about

Have you ever had a dream so real that even after waking up you almost believed it actually happened?

I just did so I had to get up for a couple of minutes, just to escape that feeling. I was in the car with my dad that day, he quietly and almost in slow motion turned his head and looked at me as if to say I should save him somehow. Of course I couldn't, and then I woke up.

By the way, the mood I was in yesterday quickly changes. I'm not a weak person, I'm just not strong all the time.

Now I'll try to get some more sleep. Good night my darlings, and thanks for all your kind words.

The vulnerable cynic

I wear black on the outside
'cause black is how I feel on the inside
and if I seem a little strange
well, that's because I am

I took a walk through the crowded streets today. I do that sometimes when I'm in a certain mood, without any goal or specific purpose, just because I really want to fit in. I know I never have, but I'm trying, so as I walk among all those people I imagine the lives they're living. I try to see them as real people with hopes and dreams and family and friends, and not just as obstacles blocking my way and my view. I try to imagine that there's a pure goodness in them, that their hearts are not as hollow as I sometimes think they are. I hold my head up and try to feel like one of them, but it takes so little to throw me back. Suddenly someone isn't watching where he's going and bumps into me. Or maybe someone gives me a certain look. That's enough to break my defense, to shatter my illusion. I hate that I let it get to me but I just can't help it.

I don't know if I'm cynical or vulnerable or maybe both. Those people start watching my every step, their shadows chasing me even in the dark, and I rush back home. And now I feel like I'm on the moon, and I'm the only one who hasn't realized that the air is unbreathable.