Anywhere

I’m not sure how to tell my story, I don’t know where to begin. And I sure, as hell don’t know where this ends. It’s just festering inside of me. It’s been festering inside of me like a disgusting abscess that someone mistakes for a pregnancy. I don’t know how else to put it. It’s gruesome and horrid, and it needs to be removed. Taken care of, excised from my being. It just can’t live here anymore. I guess that means it needs to live outside of me. On its own, as some sort of creature, grotesque and morbid, but it’s also truth and honesty. And a reality, I wish never existed.

I don’t know how to change the past. And I don’t even know how to change the future. I only know what I know right now which is this thing inside of me is eating me alive. And I just want to get rid of it. I want someone else to read this. I want someone to hear this. I want other people to carry this burden with and for me. And I know that’s unfair to ask, but I don’t think I fucking care anymore because I am so tired. I am so exhausted.

I don’t want to feel alone in a room of people. I don’t want to feel like every relationship goes one way, because no one has the gall to tell me about what’s going on in their life. Because I am some sort of litmus test for how shitty their own lives are. Because it couldn’t be as bad as mine. I hate that. I hate it in part because it’s true because when I hear about your breakup or your kitchen remodel going too slowly I want to scream at you. I want to scream at the world. And I lack the capacity to feign interest or concern.

I hate that about myself.

That it is all so pointless to care. To care about nonsense, arbitrary made up suffering when there is genuine and real destruction; starving children, bludgeoned women.
Tragedy is piled high And yet we care so much about the most superficial things. About who is a woman, and who can play sports, or use bathrooms, or get married. We care about lines drawn in sand. About places that do not really exist. About imaginary deaths. About alleged thieves of social programming. None of it is real.

Our pain, this deep-rooted suffering, that is real for so many people. But it is so ugly and so discomforting, we would rather concern ourselves with the aesthetics of life. With who looks right. It’s infuriating it makes me want to scream. I don’t know how so many people can move through the world chasing permission to be apathetic. Why not endeavor to find Justice? To pursue the improbability of peace? I will never understand. I can never quite fathom.

How did we get here? Or rather why didn’t we go anywhere else?