oyasumi
6:00 am
Writing about yourself is a difficult task, I think. Whenever I was in school and was told to write a personal narrative, I couldn’t do it. I don’t know what to write about, I’d think. My life isn’t interesting.
My teachers would tell me to think about any trips I’d been on, fun things I’ve done, have I broken a bone, has something silly happened to me, did I hang out with friends, that sort of thing.
I never could think of anything good. At least, not something that wouldn’t get me sent to the counsellor. Nothing compelling and interesting. I would write about stupid shit.
I can’t remember my childhood very well. I think that's why I had difficulty. I was being traumatized so often I couldn’t recall anything. Isn’t that funny how that works?
Isn’t that sad?
My mom always asks me if I remember things. I often don’t. My memory currently cuts off around 15. Everything is fuzzy. Huge chunks are taken out of my brain. False memories are planted where the real ones were. It’s not a fist, it’s a pillow. It’s not his hands, it’s a warm blanket. I’m being caressed by swans and not getting my innocence ripped from my tender flesh. My throat is raw from laughter and not screams.
I’m believed, and not called a lying, manipulative child.
My memories are unreliable. I don’t want to know what’s underneath the taped frames in my reel. I think if I do, I’d die.
I’m asked if I remember big trips we went on, and I can’t. Important events slip my mind. Entire people go missing, I simply can’t recall. The feeling of being a stranger in your own body isn’t something I’d wish on anyone. I often mourn the people I used to be. There were so many people before me running this Operating System, and I will never be one of them again. Entire people have died — entirely different from me. There are many people inside of me from many different periods of my life. I’m simultaneously a child and an adult. A female and a male. A demon. An angel. A computer. A human. Who am I? Will I ever be whole?
Will I ever be free?
Freedom is a strange concept. How can one truly be free if they’re shackled by the people who hurt them?
Slowly, I want to break my chains. I can see the rust eating away at the metal. I just need to be patient.
I hope one day you can be free too.
10:30 pm
I spend my workdays pondering if I'm going to be here forever.
I talked to a lot of people today. They were all creatives. They wanted to be free from this box, wanted to be able to do what they liked.
So many caged birds. It makes me sad.
I love to draw and write. I’m just terrible at following instructions. I like to do my own thing. Is that so wrong?
I came home today and got a lecture from my mom on why I should pursue the degree I dropped out from. It's all about the money. It made me really upset, because I was telling her that I wanted to go back but for something I cared about.
I'm shit at school. I don't know. Who cares. Maybe one day I'll be normal. For now, I'm just going to work my shitty part-time job. That's all there is.
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