4 years
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It’s nice to know that the delusion I had as a teenager now has a name. Main character syndrome. I really belived I was the star of a movie being filmed as I live my life. Their was a soundtrack being played when I did stuff (I just couldn’t hear it). I would talk in a scripted way saying slogans and things like the main characters in 90s action movies did. Turns out people in real life don’t talk like they do in the movies. I was that weird kid in everyones eyes and I was weird.

I see now that it was a way of me trying to get control back in my life. I have Dyslexia, so I did badly at school and at home I was abused by my older sister, a vile bully. Well, those wounds probably will never heal, I’m 36 now and it still hurts, but I guess it can yet eaiser with every passing year. Like when someone you love dies, it always hurts, but you find a way to live with the pain and loss and get on with your life.

New Confession

I wrote a few days ago about never being comforted by the people who I love and who claim to love me. like most confessions I make here, I often start to reevaluate after I hit submit and will eventually begin to feel more level headed about whatever dramatic confession of emotion I decided to spew. this is not one of those times. I had a procedure today- invasive and painful. i knew it wasn’t going to be comfortable, but then afterwards I got bad news from the results. yeah, as I suspected for a long time, I’ve got cancer in me. pre-cancer, anyway. but the doctor let me know today that considering how young I am and other aspects of my history, I shouldn’t have these huge pre-cancerous growths in me. and I mean huge. how often do you have a doctor look at you and go “wow, that was the largest polyp I’ve ever seen in a 24 year old.” anyway… after this, my boyfriend of 6 years drove me to our house, almost completely all in silence. go inside, no real words spoken. nothing to say about it. any of it. just flops onto the couch and tells me he has a headache. makes me make him food and tuck him into our bed because he ALWAYS flops onto the couch when we get home, and then proceeds to complain about how uncomfortable it is to sleep on it and how sore he is. he at least tells me he loves me, I suppose, but nothing else. I say “I love you more”, like I frequently do, which is supposed to prompt a “No you don’t”, and a short reason as to why HE loves ME more. this time, he just says nothing nothing. nothing nothing nothing. now I get to go upstairs, cook myself a meal after being asked not to eat for 3 days, and then sit alone in my living room with only my thoughts. these f****** thoughts. why do I never get to be the baby. why do I never get to be the one tucked. why do I never get to be the one who gets their back scratched and their hair played with until they sleep. why do I never get asked if I’m okay. it’s like I was open with a disease that makes it so that whenever I’m upset, or hurting, or crying, I give off a noxious gas that makes everybody sick. I hate it here.

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