(this is running) great stuff. i'm john, and i'm a bastard. (wish i could be)
04.14.05 | 1:39
the silence is going to swallow me whole. i can fucking feel it, crouching in my throat. it's holding down my hands. i don't know what to do.
i don't know what to do.
i don't know what to say.
i want to run. i always want to run. it makes me fucking sick, and i've got to run now, or i'm fucked. i'll be stuck in this fucking downward spiral, again, and i don't know if I can afford that.
it's the fucking math all over again. it's like a wall in my brain. keep it out, all costs, damn the torpedos, don't let him in again, don't let it hurt you again, 'cause it'll hurt so fucking bad.
you'll cry. you'll scream and rage and throw bloody fits, and go a little mad, but it'll be quiet. it'll be absolutely silent. no one will say a word. no one ever said a word.
no one protected her. she was so fucking young and so fucking damaged, and no one said a goddamned word. don't speak, don't think about it, put it out of your mind, and it'll go away. it won't go away for that kid over there, it'll be there waiting, every damned day god bloody made, but keep your priorities straight. don't speak. it's not like you're family or anything.
wait.
yes.
forgot. but if you leave right now to protect your own, pay no attention (and make sure you don't see), you can forget again. nice, yeah? just put it out of your mind. good for you. it's not good for her, but you don't give a flying fuck, do you? that's fine. leave. hold on to your peace.
no one protected you.
no one protected me. i don't know what the fuck they thought they were doing but it taught me how to run. it taught me to forget.
there's not much I remember, but there's a lot that I regret. how do you get contact embarrassment from your own fucking head?
i'm still not sure that she knows the extent. i'm pretty sure she doesn't, really, and from what i've heard, she didn't leave him because of me. she left him for herself. he wouldn't work and he lied about it (and I'm so afraid I'll turn into that) and that's why she left him. he fucking tormented her own bloody child (young and damaged already unbelievable) and she left him for the lies. there was reason enough at her kitchen table every goddamned night (right in front of her fucking face) but it was the lies that did it.
thanks, mum. appreciate your concern. and while we're at it, why don't you and sandra have a nice little laugh over dear old dad's assorted collection of business foibles 'cause stories of my bastard father's fuckups are just so bloody amusing. look at my face, can't you see how fucking interested i am right now.
you forgot something. you forgot about me. and now you've forgotten it all.
there's almost nothing i remember. i don't remember if i was scared. i don't remember if i could feel.
post traumatic stress disorder, you know. i'm no soldier. i give up a lot better than i fight. i'm damned good at giving up. i'm really fucking good at running. i'm doing it right now.
i'm so fucking tired of running. i don't know what else to do.
i can't fucking do it. time to give up again.
it's like seeing my whole fucking future. what i want recedes. gets misty. i don't know what's going to happen and that scares the bloody piss out of me.
i don't know what to do.
it's nighttime again. time to entertain those lovely suicidal thoughts. that's never going to happen but it might and i feel so fucking helpless. hopeless. i'm no bloody good at fighting. i'm good at running. make it go away.
it's too bloody quiet.