It's one of those things where you have something that you really want to say, maybe because you'll feel better if it's blurted out, and yet you're afraid of what their reactions will be?
I have something I very much want to say, so here it is.
I will note that, at first, I wasn't going to post this. Primarily because of the fact that a person or two or three whom I know suddenly appeared on Livejournal, and I didn't precisely want them to read it. But, then, it occurred to me that if I were to not post it due to that, Nick would indeed be right. Me, of course, not being one to ever accept being wrong has to post this in order to say "Bullocks to ya, you Insolent Spaniard." So, there you have it.
One last thing...... Don't read it.
This post is probably going to be incredibly long, and it will likely (as do I) jump from place to place. It will probably be meaningful to me, but rather unimportant to you. You also will probably not read it. I can't say that I mind the fact that you won't read it, BUT....read it anyways...
I was recently asked by an acquaintance of mine why I held such a strong distaste for drugs. She encouraged me to go all out and to in fact sacrifice others first born children in my explanation. I'm still considering the first-born scarification, and as of yet am undecided.
My brother and I share relatively similar feelings in the area of drugs, and the stupidity thereof, so for those of you who saw that piece (which was a while ago), this will look similar in a sense.
In a nutshell, I find drugs to be weak. When you use drugs, you have just given up part of who you are for a time being, in order to find something in yourself that is already there. It's like paying the bank YOUR money in order to be able to use YOUR money. Of course, just like there are lots of people that use drugs, there are lots of people that pay the bank money that is theirs in order to use money that is theirs. I can't say that makes much sense to me, personally, but to each his own.
Why not find that which you seek inside yourself without the drugs? That way, you garner the best of both worlds. You see, I will never need something to open up pathways in my head that already exist. I never have. Always have I seen and felt what others have glimpsed and dreamed. Perhaps my mind is stronger than most, perhaps just more deranged. It does not matter to me, either way. Do I feel arrogant in saying that I don't need to bother with drugs to open up channels in my mind that most other people seem to ONLY be able to achieve while under the influence? Yes. Do I fucking care? YES! But when has my caring ever changed anything? I feel what I feel, and as arrogant as I feel about it, I'm being honest. That, my friends, is a rarity these days.
But, as I said, I am an honest person. And in all honesty, my hatred of drugs goes much, MUCH deeper. Let me tell you a true story about a boy named Scott.
It was a nice and quiet Halloween evening, much like any other Halloween evening I suppose. It was a Seattle Halloween, so of course there was a bit of rain pitter-patting outside. *drippity, drop, drippity, drop* The air was cool, but not unpleasant, and to a twelve year old boy it was altogether quite meaningless. How often did you pay attention to the weather when you were a child? Probably not all that often, I would surmise. It's not really something that we care much about. If it's sunny we go to the beach, if it's rainy we play in the mud.
All of you sitting here, all of you that read this, it won't make an impact. That's the bitch of it, right? Honestly, ask yourself "since when has anybody cared"? Bush is proposing to further fuck our already raped planet, and nobody gives a shit. Cultures are still performing genocide in Africa. Anybody care? The honest truth is that yes, you do care. I won't deny that of you. But the fact of the matter is that the time when you'll REALLY care is the time when it actually begins affecting your life. Most of you have an ability to come to terms with and, despite your grievances, accept the way things are in some semblance or another. I am in no way saying you agree with them, or that they don't bother you. I'm saying that despite these things, how often are we more worried about the next paper we have to write? The next job we have to get? The next outfit we wish to throw together? What to do next weekend? I'm not saying these are bad things either. They're simply natural human things. What we feel and think. Somewhere along the way I seem to have lost most of this capacity. Thus far it's the only jealousy I've ever felt.
I truly wish I could be apathetic.
People are selfish things, and basically only care for themselves. The difference between communism and capitalism, in a very broad sense, is that communism is perfect and capitalism isn't. Of course, communism will never work as well as capitalism because people aren't perfect. Communism wasn't designed as the bad evil society that propaganda would have you believe, it was designed as the perfect society. Problem is that for communism to work you would have to have people that would never be jealous or aspire to be more than his fellow man. THAT is not human. Capitalism, however, encourages that you try to rise in power and become greater than your fellow man. THAT is something that humans understand FAR too well.
And here's the kicker...*drum-roll here*
I can't change the world.
I can't, because the world is comprised of you, you of course being other beings that think and feel for yourselves. And, of course, only you can change you. And most of you who are actually reading this aren't the problem. But, the problem IS other people, and I lack the power to change that. There is an abundance of ignorance in the world, and I can't change it. More than that is the fact that in that abundance of ignorance are people.
How many others of you have tried to argue a point with somebody that you knew was right, and they would not listen to you? Probably most of you have, I would guess. Now let me ask you this. How many of you have run into somebody that refused to listen to what you had to say, despite your being right, simply because it made their life easier to disbelieve in you? I have. It's people like them who I wish to kill. How many of you felt the same way when you were younger? That there are things wrong with the world, and they need to be fixed. You see, that's the other kicker. I've felt this way for years, and I can't change how I feel. Most people give up, learn some apathy to the ways of the world, and live their lives. Somewhere along the line, I seemed to have misplaced my ability to be apathetic, and it's driving me mad. Let me reiterate that. It is driving me FUCKING insane!
I can't accept what I can't change, and I'm the only person who doesn't have the power to change what I can't accept.
Other people have to allow themselves to change, I can't force them. I really am trying to form some sort of acceptance with the world so as to keep my sanity, but thus far I'm failing miserably. Apathy does not become me, I am emotions whore.
But I digress. Of course I digress, what else should I do? It's hard to figure out how to tell a story like this. It's hard for me because it's really easy to tell a story that you make up, and much harder to tell something that you have true emotions invested in.
It was the type of party that a lot of you, I'm sure, have been to. There were some older kids, and some of the younger ones. Not sure how it happened that way, but there were people anywhere from 12-16 years of age at the place, and there were some of your typical "goodies" such as drugs, and alcohol. Stuff that frankly, even then, I cared nothing for. But it was there, and so was I. I, of course, happened to be greatly enjoying the punch that I was drinking, instead of playing at all with any of the alcohol, and the like. Some music, some dancing, some Halloween Candy, all that "good" stuff.
You know...these are the first words that I've put down in the last hour, and it occurs to me that I have no idea how to express what I want to express.
Be back later to again try to put it down.
I guess, I was just there. I was chatting with people, and enjoying myself. Being decently smart, I had a relatively easy time mingling with folks of all age groups. I'm not much different from when I was 12, really. I have two extremes of myself, one being the very silly and surrealistic half, the other being the very serious and "grounded" half. More often than not, I'm being my silly and surrealistic self, but I move around. I've always been much more mature than one would expect for my age. Mature being relative to the situation, of course. If I don't have to be "mature" why bother? I suppose that's just how I am though.
The last thing of that night that I can actually remember, is sitting down on the sofa with a large group of people. Nothing relatively spectacular about them that sticks out in my mind, though I can recall that I greatly approved of the girl in the leather French Maid outfit. You all will, of course, excuse me if I deign to voice an opinion of mine that society has taught to be "inappropriate" to share. Because, you know, it's not like people ever have lustful feelings, or the like. =P Bullocks to that, says I.
I remember being very cold. As I woke up, there was a soft feeling of warmth next to me, but my side was terribly cold. As a matter of fact, it was the kind of cold that you get when you wake up on a tiled bathroom floor. Immediately following my realization that the left half of my body, which was laying on the floor, was terribly cold was in fact the startling revelation that I was in point of fact naked as the day I was born.
It gets better, though.
Of course RIGHT after the realization that I'm not only laying on the cold floor, but I'm naked, comes the realization that the reason that I'm also warm is because I'm laying right smack dab next to somebody. And this, of course, is followed closely by the realization that this somebody is a female. There were two more key realizations that occurred in this span of time. A span of time that couldn't have been more than 5 seconds, but managed to stretch itself into an endless eternity. The first one was that this female was naked, and the second one was that we were quite obviously post coitus. For those of you whom the term coitus doesn't really ring a bell for, that means that we'd obviously had sex.
Funny thing was, I don't remember a damn thing of it.
Neither did the girl. In point of fact, she awoke to the scene, and immediately began screaming that I'd raped her. If you ever, in your life, want to experience the most excruciatingly gut-wrenching pain that you can, then have somebody utter those words to you, and have them mean it. I can do no more justice to how it felt than that. I don't think that anything in my life will ever hurt so much. I can't explain it any better than that.
And, frankly, I don't want to.
Back to the point at hand though. The fruity punch that I had been partaking of was not as alcohol/drug free as I had wished it to be. In point of fact, nobody is sure just what was in it. One person knows they put Vodka in it, another is pretty sure that somebody layed a sheet of acid in the punch bowl to dissolve, ect. The problem I have is, despite this, the girl sticks with her story of me raping her. I spend a lot of my time thinking about it, and trying to remember anything, but I can't. I want to explain so bad, what it's like to not know something like that, but I can't. I can't remember a damn thing about it. And most people will never even come close to fathoming what that feels like.
It's hard for me to explain what it's like to wake up crying sometimes. To have nights where I can't sleep, nights where I can't stop throwing up. Days when I'm too sick to my stomach to do anything. Far too many days that I was so sick to my stomach that I couldn't go to school. I can't explain to you what it feels like to see somebody and pass out because of who they are. I can't tell you what it's like to on one hand think that killing yourself is a terrible thing, so instead wishing day and night for years that you would die. Preferably die a martyr, of course. It's something that I can sit here and write about. It's something that you can read, and you can think about how it sounds, but it's not a tangible emotion for you. Maybe for some of you it is. Emotions are a funny thing. There are people in this world that have probably been through less than me, but hurt more. There are those that have probably been through more than me but hurt less. In the spectrum, of course, I could never tell you where I stand comparatively. I'm not anybody else, so I don't know. I CAN say that I feel a lot better than I used to. Whether it's simply that in the end you get more used to the pain, and bear it with less notice, or that eventually the pain dulls is up to debate. And, really, it's neither here nor there considering that the end result is the same. But I must admit that I do feel better than I used to, and I suppose that's something to be happy for. But the fact of the matter is that it's hard for other people to relate to it.
Maybe some of you can, but I doubt that most of you can quite grasp what it's like. Imagine that somebody raped you, or your best friend perhaps. Imagine the hatred, the disgusting feeling you'd get whenever you looked at them. I felt that. I felt it every day when I looked in the mirror. In all honestly I usually don't have to look in the mirror. It's just one of those things that's there. The things that happened have made me a lot of things. It's made me a control freak in an odd sense as well. Not of others, mind you, but of myself. This in turn leads to my intense STRESSING of the need for individuality. This could also explain why I freaked out when they were putting me under to take out my wisdom teeth. I've never seen such a look of panic in a doctors eyes as when I nearly strangled him. It was interesting. Apparently that's not the first time something like that has happened to him though, and his staff did not panic, and I was not killed, which is good I suppose, because dying would have been rather detrimental to my health.
I surmise that, ultimately, the inescapable conclusion overtakes. I have no way with words nor actions to paint unto you the appropriate picture of my emotions. Nor, even where I cruel enough to, could I take your head in my hands and make you feel the pain, hatred, guilt and sorrow that I hold. Though the question would be, done for cruelty or sanity's sake? There is a point in loneliness, where despite the pain it may cause others, you wish them to know how you feel.
If only for the sake of relating...