everything changes (but we all stay the same)

chapter three: the steady stagnation of a helpless mind

i don't think it matters what i want, anymore.

life has stagnated more and more
over these years,
these months,
these weeks,
days,
hours,
and minutes.

every second,
life slows down more and more,
becomes less and less of a life over time,
but i'm still just sitting here in the filth
of my illness and trauma,
letting myself suffer,
because i've lost the ability to do
anything good for myself.

i don't know how to do good things for myself.

i don't think i ever have,
in fact.

isn't that sad?
isn't it just downright pitiful,
hopeless,
and disappointing?

that's all i've known,
though.
that vicious cycle:

mother does something for me,
i feel grateful,
she momentarily disappears,
i forget how to do what it is that she did for me,
i fall into despair,
i am pitied by those around me,
and i accept the pity and relish in it.

rinse,
repeat.

how poorly must a person be
to actually crave,
need,
and live for pity?

i can't do anything for myself,
and i don't know who to blame:
my mother,
or my own weak will?

i wish i had never been born at all.

that, or i wish my mother had died giving birth to me.
is it sick for me to wish something like that?
i don't know. i don't know anything.

all i know is that i would have most likely
grown into a strong,
respectable person
if it were just my father raising me.

but because my mother refuses to
give up control over me,
refuses to let me be anything more than
just a doll for her to play with,
i am just pitiful.

and even now,
i still pity myself,
despite knowing how deplorable it is.

how very,
disgustingly,
pathetic of me.