I am not my brothers, I do not have to fail, I am not my brothers, I do not have to fail. The mantra repeats itself. As my heart slows and the urgency to act rashly dissipates, I gently remind myself, They did not fail. They struggled and succeeded. I wish I believed my words.
Deep down, behind my anger and frustration, I think that I know the truth, and I envy them. For one, cut after cut, self-inflicted punishment repeated itself until he helped himself. For the other, hit after hit from a bong, drugs consumed and dictated action until he realized his desire for something more real. But me? I am lost in the wake; my parents want only to succeed once with any trouble. I hope to grant them their request because I do not think it was asking too much of God to have a daughter who did not hurt or defy.
Yet I am consumed by the flames of my own want.
I want to mutilate.
I want to act out.
I want to live.
My entire being aches to be able to step away from their expectations and ridicule.
****

I know they do not mean to hurt my sense of self. I know instinctively that they act to protect me from the world and the horrors that reside outside the walls of our home. And yet… I find my only refuge to be away from them. Hiding within the confines of my bedroom, I am struck with a sense of calm and peace. I wish I could carry these feelings with me far outside the reaches of these four corners, but instead, I find that I have to steel my nerves to even attempt walking to the kitchen.
I am shattered by their words.
I feel beyond inadequate. Why am I not enough? Why can’t they love me the way I am, without implying that I am anything less than I could be?

Fright

Oddly enough, I thought I had moved past this. Needing to vent my feelings to no one. Or someone no where. Apparently, in the face of adversity I revert back to what I know to be time-tested stress relievers.

Almost always, I only post my "poetic" thought ramblings. However, my self-control no longer exists.

I will be completely honest and say that: it is not helping this time.

I am not being dramatic. Or maybe I am?

I can be that. Dramatic, I mean.

I want to be coherent and understandable and understanding and loving and reassuring and that person who everyone expects me to be when faced with shock.

But I'm scared. When the shit hits the fan, I might lose a friend because I was protecting another. And I might hate myself a little for it.

A lot.

And my mind is running in circles and I want it all to just not be.

I want my voice back.

Sometimes I worry for my metal state.

And then I remember that I've not done anything wrong, but I still feel guilty.

Does that make it worse?

I think it does.

Swirling confusion surrounds me from all sides and I do not know who to turn to.

Promises tie my hands behind my back and gag me.

I feel helpless and hurt.

I want to help.

My arms cannot move.

My mouth cannot speak.

Why do we only care enough to say, "That's a pity"?

Humanity fails itself over and over again.

"Never Again." (At least, not until someone decides they want to do it again, because we're not going to stop them.)

How can they have faith in us? How can they not hate us? I do.

And I'm a part of it.