Diary of My Soul

My Dream Sweet Sixteen

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 07:22:09 GMT

When American teens turn sixteen, they want something in particular. For most teenage girls, it would be a nice, drive-able car.

Guess what I wanted for my sixth birthday? No, not a doll. Not a dollhouse, no barbies, no fancy new dresses, no make up kits, no kitchen sets or Easy-Bake sets.

Give up?

A remote control car.

And to be honest, I didn’t even want it to be too terribly big. Just small, with big enough tires that it could go on any household surface, like carpet. And a cool color, like red or blue or black. Beyond that, I didn’t care too much.

Almost ten years later, and I still haven’t gotten it.

And it’s quite surprising, really. I’ve been so fucking vocal about what I wanted. And I know it’s got nothing to do with boy toys or girl toys. When I wanted a toy, I either got it or I didn’t. My parents certainly didn’t mind the BB Gun and Yu-Gi-Oh Cards.

To this day, I have never figured out how or why I never got that stupid remote controlled car.

Which is why I’m getting one for my 16^th birthday.

Well, okay, maybe not right on it – whenever I get my driver’s license, because Toy ‘R’ Us is quite a drive away and I plan to go there all on my lonesome.

Yes, I know it’s considered selfish to buy yourself a birthday gift, but you know what? I don’t give a fuck. I’ve been waiting ten years for a stupid remote control car. And most kids want a real car for their sweet sixteen. And while a real car would be nice, a remote controlled one would be better.

That’s ten years of broken promises in one stupid little toy. Ten years of raised and shattered hopes and dreams in one stupid little toy. Ten years of mistrust and iced emotions, and ten years of running away from it all, all in one stupid little toy.

I’m tired of running. Now, I want to drive away.

Besides, it’s more cost efficient. I mean, $50 vs. $5000.

And I don’t give a damn that I’m too old for a stupid remote controlled car, and that I should have grown out of this. No, I’m not going to gripe about ten years being too long or sinful or what not (though, considering that the average American female’s lifespan for my birthyear is roughly 74, I’ve wasted almost 14% of my whole damn life waiting around one for stupid toy).

I know I’ve got it easy. Doesn’t change the fact that right now, all it will take is one goddamn toy to buy my forgiveness. Shallow? Yes. Do I care? No, not really.

People always give you everything except what you ask for. That’s why I’m going to get myself a stupid toy for my sweet sixteen, because no one else will.

I Know You Mean Well, But Shut Up

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 07:14:44 GMT

When my parents divorced, ratter than fighting some massive custody battle, they just let me decide. They had me talk to some kind of mediator about it.

That dummy court shrink or child lawyer or whoever ponders over everything I just told him. I told him about Daddy’s yelling and Mommy’s ranting and all my crying and all the throwing things and things breaking and crashing, and how going home is hard on certain days or certain weeks because I just know they’re going to fight, and how I have to choose who to live with, and break the other one’s heart.

And they’re fighting all the time, fighting over me, and I don’t even know why because I’m just one kid with bad grades and who loses all the footraces and all I ever do is sit there and read, and it would be awesome if they’d stop fighting, but they never, ever, ever do, not since they started when I was 5.

He leans forward.

“So…how does this make you feel?”

I’m not sure if you noticed, Mr. Fancy Suit Guy, but I just told you about how my heart has been shattered and rebuilt and shattered and rebuilt over and over again for four years, since my parents started fighting, and that I’m often terrified to go home, and I have to break one parent’s heart and puff up the other parent’s pride.

I told him I wished they’d just stay together and stop fighting.

How do you think I feel?

But I can’t tell him that. I know he means well, or whatever it is grown-ups say when someone’s trying to be nice but keeps messing up more and more. But this guy’s annoying. I don’t think he ever was a kid. He just keeps asking the same questions over and over, and I keep giving him the same answers.

Besides, I know most of what I want is wishful thinking. I want my parents to be together and happy and not fighting. But that’s on my list of things I want that I’ll never have. On my list of things I want that really could happen, I want them to split up, and just not talk to each other much, and be nice to each other when they do.

“If you had three wishes, what would you wish for?”

“I’d wish for my parents to stop fighting so we’d all be happy together, I’d wish I was better at school, and I’d wish that I could have a remote controlled helicopter.”

“Who do you like to spend time with more? Your mother or your father?”

“Depends what we’re going.”

“Do you want your parents to stay together?”

Well, duh, yes. “No.”

Finally, I surprised him. “Why not?”

“Because if they do, they’ll keep fighting. And I don’t like they’re fighting. If they divorce, then they won’t live together, and they can’t fight if they never see each other.”

“You just said you wished for them to be together.” I know, Mr. Fancy Suit Guy. I’m not stupid. I know you think I am, but I’m not.

“Yeah. But it’s never going to happen. They hate each other too much to ever go back together. Wishes don’t really come true, anyway.”

I think I just shocked him, then. After all, nine year old girls’ lives practically surround wishes. But I already know the difference between wishes and dreams. One of them you want but you know will never come true. The other one will come true, but you only want it because it’s all you’ll get.

At this point, I think he just decides to skip ahead to the question he’s probably been surrounding this whole conversation. That, or far more likely, I really just don’t remember the rest. I don’t even know if everything so far is true.

“Who do you think you would want to live with?”

“Well, I’m about to have puberty, so my mom first. Then I’ll go live with my dad, because he’s better at school work and stuff, and that’s when I’ll be in high school.”

“You don’t think one’s better than the other?”

“Depends at what.”

“You’re not going to pick the one you like better?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Because I don’t like either of them. “I’m just using logic. It’s better. And easier.”

“Do you like one of them more?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Because it doesn’t matter who I’m with – neither of them see me. They only see their daughter – but not me. I don’t exist, to them. And it doesn’t matter which one I’m with, because around both of them, it’s just too hard to try and make them see me.

“Because I love them both.”

Only, I don’t remember what love feels like, anymore. I stopped loving them, so that the guilt would end. Because love involves trust, but I no longer can trust anyone. It’s not that I don’t want to trust someone – I really do want to trust someone, I really do. But I just can’t.

Most of all, I stopped loving them because it was pointless. It just took your life away from you drop by drop, and you never got anything back. It was just a gap in the armor around me, one which I couldn’t afford to have.

Stupid Fancy Suit Guy.

Nine year olds are smarter than you think.

It's The Pain, Not The Blood

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 07:00:02 GMT

A little bit of a reality check on cutting, a.k.a. self-injury. After all, I can at least offer an inside perspective. When I was told soldiers don't cry, they bleed, I already thought I knew how strong they were - and I wanted to be as strong.

You know all those stories and poems and books about cutters? How the cutter ‘actually’ cuts herself? (Yes I know there’re guy cutters – but I don’t want to deal with typing out him/herself, and girls cut more than guys, anyway).

It’s always the same: cutter locks herself in a bathroom or bedroom, has a special knife, and is mesmerized by the blood and the way the lights reflect on it, and keeps cutting until their arm is covered in blood, and suddenly, everything seems better.

Well, fuck them.

If you were me, you’d feel the same. You’d know that you don’t always lock places, just make you’re in a private place. And you don’t need a special knife – just something sharp and easily maneuverable. And while blood is sometimes nice, it’s not always about that.

Of course, I have a slightly added benefit of knowing about how cutting releases endorphins, which is why some people go for it. I even knew about that before Dr. House said it on TV.

But that’s not all of it.

You don’t cut to numb the pain. You cut to block out the pain. Yes, there is a difference.

I mean, yeah, when you start the cutting, the blood is pretty cool to watch. That red stuff trickling out your arm is what keeps you alive, ya know? And it does look cool in the light.

But it’s the pain you’re in for. Because when everything is going wrong in your life, you know it’s too much to hope for it to get better. So you just want it to stop hurting. But you can't make it just stop hurting. So you make something else hurt even more.

So you cut. And then you get a nice dose of pain, and start to feel something inside to make that better. And then you start to focus your head, all intent on blocking out the pain you just caused.

And suddenly, it doesn’t hurt any more. Nothing hurts, because you can’t feel anything, anyways. You’re so focused on blocking out the pain from the cuts, it blocks out everything else, too.

That’s what cutters are in for. That’s what I was in for.

So fuck the incense and screw the rituals and throw away that damn special knife, and for god’s sake, most cutters don’t go near suicide.

And why does the cutting always get worse? Always? I’ve got an almost exactly 3 year history to speak from, and the cutting never got better or worse. Why does it always get worse? Sometimes, what you start with is good enough.

Let me tell you this: some cutters (thought I admit, not all) are excellent judges of their own pain. Enough to get it right the first time. Enough that the first cut is just the right size.

Cutters aren’t insane. Not sane, just not insane. And not in it for the blood, or for the pain. Cutters are in it to block the pain. We’re in it to block the pain.

I was.

Why I Lost Faith

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 06:53:19 GMT

You know, I really wasn't an Atheist all my life. I wasn't a Christian or Hindu or anything like that. I just happened to believe in God, once in my life.

Hey, God. It's me - Miah. Remember me?

Someone just asked my why I don't believe in you. Amazing, that Atheism still shocks people.

Well, I wanted to tell them, the whole story. I don't exactly mind telling people details about myself that most people don't like to share.

But I didn't. Because it's such a long story.

You know it, right? Do you remember me hiding in the closet when my mom and dad were fighting? Do you remember me praying desperately, because it was the only thing I could do, that I knew how to do that could get them to just stop it...

Do you remember me crying in my closet? Over my bed, after my mom tucked me in? In the kitchen, when my parents are fighting without words, thinking I don't notice? Do you remember me staring into my food and praying silently that this would be their last fight?

Do you remember my crying when my dad finally got arrested on a fucked up abuse charge? Do you remember me asking you why my mom would lie? Or, was she even lying? Do you remember my faith in you dying the moment those handcuffs clicked together on his wrists?

It was like that weird movie, where whenever a bell tolled, an angel was getting his wings. Well, guess what? When I heard that metallic clink, my faith in you died. Because I've been so good. I didn't lie, I didn't steal, I didn't cheat. I was nice to everyone, and I prayed to you every night, as I fell asleep.

But you still let this happen.

How could you?

So I gave up. I stopped praying. I started lying, just to survive, because I wasn't surviving before. And I started being mean, because I learned that being nice let people hurt you more than being mean to them.

Do you remember me asking, one last time, when my parents started to fight over me? Do you remember my desperate words, late at night, with just a few tears running down my face, when I had to choose? When my parents had me so worked up, I was convinced that whoever I didn't choose would kill themself, so I was choosing who would live and who died? Do you remember that?

Because I do. I remember. "Forgive and forget". I did neither. And now I know not to pray to you, because it doesn't do any good.

Thanks for nothing, God. Some help, you were. Everyone always told me that if I asked nicely, I would get what I want. Well, I did. I asked the same thing for years and you ignored every damn word of it.

I just asked for all the hurting to end. That's all. I asked for them to stop fighting. To stop hating each other. I just asked to not be afraid around my parents, afraid of hurting them, afraid for them.

I just asked for us all to be happy.

But I'm not.

My mother is still on the edge of suicide.

My father is still scraping for control.

And I'm still afraid around my parents.

Thanks for all the help, God. "The Lord helps those who help themselves." Yeah, right. I did help myself. And you never did. I had to lie to my parents constantly to protect their shockingly fragile hearts. I had to lie to everyone I knew, convince them I was happy, just to make sure they didn't break apart my family. I had to stem my emotions to make sure I couldn't be hurt. I had to learn not to hope, so I could never be disappointed. I had to learn how to make my face a mask, so that when I fell, no one would kick me when I was down. I had to make myself constantly cold, inside and out, so that I would survive when I fell into the flames.

I had to bleed, so I wouldn't cry.

"Thank God for all the things in your life that make you who you are today."

Yeah - thanks for nothing, God.

Why Read This? Don't Ask Me, I'm Just The Lunatic In The Corner

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 06:50:04 GMT

I mean, really, there are probably hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of livejournals in existence right now. Why read mine?

Actually, you shouldn't. There isn't really much worth here. Me trying to explain how someone who's led the perfect life can still end up a cynic. I don't know who this is for. This really is just my diary, despite what my subtitle says. This is just me, pouring out my soul.

Or rather, that little piece of my soul that went and curled up in a corner with a blankie and a pillow a long time ago. She's been taking quite a long nap,. Yet, she's been thinking a lot while she was asleep - she's been having dreams and nightmares and a lot in between, while she's been sleeping.

She's awake, now. And she's got a lot to say.