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Dec 17, 2010, 03:34 AM
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So, I've been thinking about deleting my account lately. Nothing bad happened or anything. I havn't been here in ages and have found different ways to cope other then spilling my guts over the internet. Mostly involving escapism.
The problem is that I'm scared. Scared that on the off chance I, or somebody close to me suddenly becomes an prominent figure of public interest that all of this will be dug up. There is sensitive stuff here. Personal stuff. Downright weird stuff that I wish I could take back. I still have my journal. My therapist has copies of what I wrote. I want to burn it. I want to burn ALL OF IT and pretend it had never existed in the first place. That's how bad I don't want anyone else to know. To me it's nothing but shame.
And then I realize it's not just here, In my short life I've been MANY places on the internet. Countless places, countless posts. The only thing keeping me sane is that I know like everything else in life it will be drowned out. I'm no special snowflake. There are people who have posted worse. There are thousands of people who have posted more shameful things. I should be thankful that the stupid things I do in my youth is sharing my pain and confusion to the world as if I were talking to a brick wall then to drive drunk and swallow my front teeth when I hit the steering wheel.
And yet.
I can't let this fear, shame, and unhappiness go. As if regret was the core part of my personality, of my very being.
I am writing this all now because of a dream I had last night. A dream where I was close to a family that had 3 adopted children. The oldest was a daughter who was frail and crippled from birth, the youngest was a son who had survived cancer as a child however was alright now despite the possibility of remission. The two children were showered with love and support. It was the middle child, this child who her entire life had been disturbed, who lived in far away places, the little girl who never wanted to be herself, to live her life, the girl who was a danger to herself and others, the girl who tried to ruin things for the rest of her family as a cry for help. She was shunned, and had a weary resentment thrown her way until she finally killed herself. It was only after she died did I see how much her family actually cared about her... because in life they were simply annoyed by her.
It was so easy to see the meaning of that. I'm more then willing to overcome things in a physical nature, I can adapt despite how my parents firmly believe that I loathe change. No, when it comes to the part of me in pain, the part of me that lived her childhood in silly fantasies until her own suffering turned her into a monster, the part of me that NEEDS attention as much as she wants it. I've been wanting her to die for so long. To have her dead and gone so I don't have to ruin my image. Even if this were possible, it would leave such a big hole in myself.
There have been other things too, hurting me lately. I realize that I need less stuff in my life, yet I'm too afraid to throw away keepsakes from years upon years ago because then I'll have nothing to remember those years by. My long term memory is horrible. Even as a child I knew this and I tried to write down what I was thinking and feeling about the world around me so that when I'm older I'll remember. Those writing are long gone now. It's true. I can't remember. At one time I could remember my life so clearly but now... I remember remembering things. If I go back and try to remember I can only go back so much before I realize that my memory is shot. I can't remember faces. I can't remember surroundings I can't remember the events well either. I knew this would happen to me, and yet despite my best efforts it happened anyways.
I think to myself, year from now when I'm an adult and no longer can remember my teenage years... will I think it's because of some sort of emotional trauma? I know that this is not the case... but I won't know for sure years from now. I could very easily make up false memories like that. I have so many times in the past... really, it's not that hard. I have a vivid imagination after all.
If a person is simply the sum of their experiences in life... and I can hardly remember my own life... then what am I? Who am I really, as a person?
I'm sorry this turned into such a long ramble. There are things going on in my life right now that should be stressful... but aren't bothering nearly as much as my own insecurities that I'm going to be judged, rejected, shunned by the world. That's what happens when you're bullied since before you can remember, I guess.
PS: Therapy is too expensive right now, otherwise this would be going in my journal. I have no one to talk to about this sort of thing because I don't want the family dynamic to change. Plus my parents have enough stress in their lives as it is and I'm already compounding that by having zero appetite and isolating myself more and more. Looks like once again, PC is the place I'm turning to to spill my guts out. I'm not sure if this'll be the last time or not. I'm hoping that... if someone is reading this right now that they'll understand. That if my own issues someday become the subject of controversy like I have this paranoia about that they'll read this... and really understand me for who I am and know that people aren't characters.
That's it I guess, goodnight. 
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