stupid thoughts

shit

well, im back. that's how you know it's bad.

i can't tell when exactly i posted that last chapter, but i know it was from back when i was happy in a relationship. so probably a few years.

i've already accepted this whole book thing as a place to vent, at least when things get really bad. i guess not when things get REALLY bad. it's more like when i feel or remember or think things that i need to get out, but it's so personal that i can't really talk about it anywhere.

i realized i overshare about myself a lot. it's never directly to anyone in specific, but still i realize a lot of my friends might not want to see some of the shit i say. and when i do talk about something bothering me, of course there's that made up obligation that makes people feel like they have to reach out and say

"are you okay?

do you want to talk about it?"

even when we don't feel like it. even when we already have enough shit on our plate.
even when we can't handle being someone else's shoulder to cry on.
even when we can't take anymore bad and oh god, make the bad go away please.

i hate that feeling, and i'd hate to make other people feel that way. i'd hate to make my friends feel that way, so i post here.

for strangers on the internet to see instead.

because that makes sense.

actually, i've said this in the past, but the person this book was originally about, the REASON this thing exists, reads it. or they have read it in the past. i don't know if they'd come back to it, but if they do,

hi.

i hope this thing isn't seen by a lot of people, but if it is, i won't really care. that's why i write here. i don't use wattpad for anything else, so i can write my thoughts here and then forget about it for a year or however long until i need it again.

i like the anonymity i get here. so i don't feel bad about taking up anyone's time, or making you feel forced to care, because you chose to read this, y'know? i don't know you, you don't know me, i don't care what you think of this. you can pity me, you can hate me. read this because you find it laughably edgy and im taking myself too seriously. i don't care. why would I?

it feels like my only option. i can't message my friends, or go up to them and say "hey, wanna hear about my sex life and how my hypersexuality has ruined my life immeasurably? how it makes me hate myself? or about how i don't know which is worse, being raped or the fact i didn't realize that's what it was until my teen years? how about the feeling of knowing that my mom knew? she looked her own kid in the eyes, 6 years old, crying, trying the best he can to explain what happened without even knowing what it was, all he knew is that it was weird and gross and he didn't want it again, not again. he was crying his eyes out not only because of what happened, but because he felt like he was in trouble for it, like he was confessing to doing something he wasn't supposed to, even if he didn't want it. it wasn't his idea. he didn't want it. he couldn't stop it. he needed her to stop it. he doesn't want it to happen again. don't let it happen again. he's apologizing. he's apologizing because he doesn't understand what happened. he feels used, but he doesn't know it. he can't comprehend it. he's on the floor. he's on his knees. he's sobbing so hard it hurts. she hasn't said anything. why won't she say anything. please god say anything. she doesn't. she doesn't comfort you. she doesn't kneel down to hold you. she doesn't wipe your tears and brush your hair out of your face. she doesn't tell you what she needs to tell you.

baby i'm so sorry.
you're going to be okay.
we're going to stop this.

she doesn't say anything.
she's just looking down at you.
she looks terrified.
she looks disgusted.

she doesn't say anything,
and then she walks away.

it happens again.
she lets it happen again.
again.
and again.
it's happening every weekend.
she knows it's happening.

but it's okay.
if she doesn't say anything about it, it didn't happen.

she doesn't say anything.