word vomit III

blank spaces.

7 may 2017; c. 7:00 pm
9 may 2017; 7:26 pm—7:31 pm

—

tell me about the blank spaces in your heart.

tell me about your loneliness, your pain, your suffering, your anger, your sadness.

tell me about how much you want to fix it all, but you can't and you don't know why.

tell me about how you don't understand why these blank spaces are in your heart in the first place.

tell me about how you do know why they're there, but who are you to complain when there are people going through things much worse than what you're going through: you who have a roof over your head, you whose parents are still together, you who has food on the table every night, you who have a bed to sleep on, you who have friends to surround yourself with, you who are still able to believe in a God?

how dare you feel the way you do.

tell me about how despite all of these blessings, you are the one ridden with mental illnesses and demons that just won't go.

tell me about how you're scared of the demons that hide under your bed and behind your door, even though you're much too old to be so afraid. however, you were taught that God exists, and so does everything opposite Him.

tell me about how you're afraid to speak of your religion online because you're afraid to feel like you're oppressing others; because you know how people of your religion have hurt others.

tell me about your anger. tell me about how just absolutely angry you are, but you don't have the luxury of being petty towards the people you're angry at and talking back to your parents because the eyes of five little ones are watching your every move, and they have to be better than you.

they have to be better than you.

they can't end up like you.

you can't afford for them to end up like you.

tell me about how your parents tell you that they don't pressure about your grades because they know you do that to yourself already, but they don't realize that they're pressuring you in every other way.

tell me about how you can't afford to cry at home, not even at night when you're supposed to be asleep, because you can't afford for anyone to hear you. not your siblings, and most certainly not your parents.

it's not a conversation you're ready for.

tell me about how you feel so alone, how you feel that your friends that promised they would always be there suddenly feel like they were never there at all. tell me about how they only care about you when they see you in person. tell me about how they never bother to check up on you with even a simple text. tell me about how you hear about them from your other friends, how they tell everyone about something except for you, whom they told that they trusted and loved with everything in them.

tell me about how you know it's probably your fault that they never text, because it's not like you text them either. it's not like you check up on them.

you tell yourself that it's your anxiety preventing you from doing so (what if they're busy? what if i text them too often and they get tired of me? what if i'm not actually that important to them? what if—), because you know it is, but you can't pardon yourself from possibly losing some of the most important people in your life.

tell me about how you feel that you're exaggerating over all this, but you can't help but feel this way.

tell me about how you're tired of being happy. you're the happy one, the cute one, the little one who gives the best hugs and allows everyone to squish her cheeks and give the brightest smiles. tell me about how you need to be the happy one for them, how you feel that if this isn't how you act for them, then they won't even bother with you. (because you saw what happened when you weren't happy-go-lucky little hannah, with your nose stuck in a book and curled into a ball in a chair. they did not bother. it was like you weren't even in the room.)

tell me about how you wish you could be happy for yourself.

tell me about how you're leaving behind the people you've known for years at school, and as much as you hope to stay in contact, you know that you might as well never see them ever again.

tell me about how everything you do hurts.

it hurts to get up, to walk, to look at everyone around you and feel like deadweight, a waste of space.

tell me about how you've never thought about taking your own life before, but now you wonder if it would hurt to try.

but then again, you're too scared.

you're too scared.

you're always scared of something.

tell me about how you're tired of being scared.

tell me about how you wish you could tell someone about all of these things, but you don't want to bother anyone, don't want to be a burden.

because it's not like anyone cares that much about what's hurting you, or even you in general.

and it's not like you trust anyone to that extent in the first place.

tell me about how you wish you remembered what it felt like for someone to care about you.

tell me about how you wonder if anyone really has.

tell me about how you hate when your parents are angry. how you hate when they yell at each other, at you, but, most of all, how they yell at your brothers. tell me about how it makes your skin crawl, about how your heart pounds and you just want to run up and hug your baby brother as he cries and cries and cries—but you're the good girl. you don't disobey your parents; you stay put when you know you should and only speak in these situations when spoken to, and you try your hardest not to come into contact with them for the next few hours because you're too afraid that you'll set them off again.

tell me about how your not-even-one-year-old sister can hear when your brother is crying and when your parents are yelling at him, and she turns her head to that direction with the most confused and concerned face that she can muster, and she tries to crawl to him and see what's wrong—but you don't let her go. you pick her up with your breaking heart and trembling hands and make sure that she doesn't go over there. she can't see that; she has to be better.

she's supposed to end up better than you.

she's supposed to end up happier than you.

if that doesn't happen, then what will you amount to?

what will you be remembered for?

"the cute one with the squishy cheeks and lots of siblings."

tell me about how badly you want these little ones to be better than you, but also how you want to be better than yourself, whether or not the ones around you continue to stick around.

tell me about the blank spaces in your heart, then tell me about what you want to fill them up with.