u/EverTheWatcher

Tw;existential dread? Death? Emo level anxiety?

Don’t worry, I’ll delete this soon enough, as is my MO.

I hate that after the indoctrination of being a fuck-up, that never leaves you. I did all the things; house, spouse, mouse (well, guinea pigs until kids). Steady work since I got my degree… (yes, I was able to mask and repress for quite some time). Yet. Never feel like I regained proper personhood for society. No, not proving anything to my parents. I have no hometown to get accolades from. No one knows me other than those I wanted to… but for myself.

I feel ashamed that everything always feels so difficult, and like I’m failing for feeling like that, when so much must simply be adulting. But how much are my self deceptions and what is reality? If I haven’t been able to define “future” or “happiness” or “safety” for nearly three decades, there is no “made it.” It’s daunting to look to the future and feel like it can’t come because the past is still in the present.

Just today, I was randomly reflecting on that you know a death rattle when you’ve seen it, and it’s not quite what movies show, but… you immediately know. Maybe it’s just because this is my first Mother’s Day without one, or that I took her pulse because I knew exactly when it happened, but I was thinking about how having flashbacks to the clammy feeling of her fingers juxtaposed with how warm her head still was so vividly… just feels like it ya a weakness, a failure.. that I have so many flashbacks to so many things only proves the initial point, that we were broken fuckups. Lots of people watch parents die. Just each new thing seems caught in the web of c-PTSD. Like I can’t have a bad thing happen without it joining the best hits film role.
And it’s so tiring. And I’m whining online to people who had real struggles. And it’s not a competition. But that doesn’t stop the feeling that someone who wasn’t a fuckup wouldn’t be so affected.

I wrote before that sometimes I wonder if I never survived…. I still wonder if I’ll wake up and be 13 again. In the meantime, I can’t process shit because all I can feel is the defection. And the loneliness of the experience… to this day I pretend I had friends at TTI; even a place as extreme as that, you can feel the barriers between us. TTI reinforced its own assertions- I have never felt like a person since. Just a consumer for capitalism…or a resource to be used by people. If we had “value” people would protect us, or stay.

I seem to regularly find myself trying to hunt down why I’m crying for no discernible reason. Happens a lot with songs by content or specific memory. Sometimes themes in media, like a responsibility to protect your children or siblings as a given.

Lately, was trying to figure out what in the royal marines Prodigy medley could possibly trigger me. Look at the part I start inexplicably tearing at. Check my music library. Yep, 1997- maximum electronica. While I don’t think I even brought a cd player to TTI, the few CDs I had at the time (at home) are apparently indelibly linked. Not the music of the era, the radio, etc. It’s probably because we had so much taken, what little we had gained importance… cds that would be in a box in temporary housing, at what I’d call home, despite having only had a few weeks there when I wasn’t at TTI.

I hate that EVERYTHING is becoming so f’ing meaningful. I want the memories to become grayer so they can be more put to rest…