Ten minute fears

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic

Writing prompt was to write for a quick 10 min about our fears.

I lay the problems of my life, my joys and sorrows down across the space between us like gumdrops the therapist will pluck with Homer Simpson glee "Ooo piece of candy" in order to analyse and tell me what is wrong with me.

Instead, I find myself staring back at cold dead eyes who before I even sat down, before I even said a word have deduced some absurd irrational psudeo-freudian nonsense is my problem all because what I chose to wear today.
Instead, I find myself defending who I am, who I think I am all because my favorite colour is apparently evidence of some deep root seated cause for such a malaise that this dead eyed hen has decided that my life cannot any longer be mine to control and facilitate.
Instead, I find myself restrained, losing control, bound by the sensiblities, the moralities, the so called ethics of a nepoliantic clipboard weilding maniac that hides behind a customer service smile.
Instead, I am told the passing crow is white and I am the one insane for not saying it is just as this educated zombie regurgitating edicts decrees it to be.
Instead I'm told I am the reason I was raped and all manner of vile depravity and harshness I've ever experienced in my life, that I as the common denominator am the evil debased one, the demon in the basement and my mother was right to violate every manner of any privacy or pride I had in my life.
I sit, legs hanging, barely touching the floor and watch the shadows between the hangman therapist and I and spill my horrors, my pains, my regrets into threads, that woven tightly would hang me.
I am chastized.
I am shunned and condemned.
Villified and destroyed further than I thought the ashes of myself were capable of.
I am told I am at fault for being broken.
I lean looking out the window, gazing at reflections of my features I do not recognize and barely tolerate as I speak about the shadows behind my neon blue crying eyes.
I wish I was anywhere else but here.
I wish I was anyone else...
I wish I was.... gone.
but guilt tripped and shamed not even that is an option.
I hear myself speaking but cannot hear myself heard.
Every syllable frozen, lost in a "could you repeat that?"
Every nuiance lost in misunderstanding as I belabour my points in the hopes of being understood.... just...once...
I say the sky is blue, and what is heard is purple monkey dishwasher picked up last thursday is broken so my mother won't be over for tea.
I ask for the slightest thing and am disrespected to the point I am met with such distain for daring to speak it is like I have asked them not to kindly move so I can put my recycling in the bin, but that I have asked them to skin their cat and eat it infront of their long lost child.
I ask for my line in the sand to be respected, but instead I get asked forty different times, and ways, if I will change my mind, compromise like I am somehow able to turn myself into a ghost and go through the wall of something I might not have the ability to change as its out of my hands...but whoa boy if I don't do it their way, it must be because I'm an inexperienced fool who needs to be patronized and infantized with their sugar coated insults hidden behind a "but God bless their heart."
I ask for one day, where my best ... is good enough. Where my 98% report card is not scrutinized for the one assignment I didn't get 100 on and where I will not be destroyed, demonized for that 2% I never got.
I ask to not be an inconvience.and burden to ...Everyone. I. Meet.
But I get told, how dare I think I'm in any way worthy.
How dare I in any way take anything I've ever done and think its in anyway valued or better than before.
How dare I have agency over my body and who I let touch me and who I don't.
How dare I have any sense of mind of my own that is not guided, shaped and lead by better minds telling me what to think and feel.
How dare I have anything that makes me happy or benfts my life.
How dare I want to be disconnected from a world that at the same time it demands you post everything about yourself, give everything willingly of yourself, also guilt trips you for sharing; guilt trips you into interconnecting every aspect of your online life with every other so its easier for someone to have an opinion on shit that's not any of their damn business....

How dare I defend myself as the victim when I made my aggressor feel bad for their actions
How dare I want my own life when I am not < insert guilt tripping, manipulating, gaslighting bullshitting depreciating reason here> that I do not meet <insert unreasonable perfectionist and unattainable standard here>
And that is what this dead eyed bitch with her clipboard, checking off my problems like its a grocery list of insanity to rob me of my self-agency of mind, body and soul all so she can lock me up and throw away the key for my favorite colour being something that makes her sick.
Fear of success, fear of failure, fear of being an imposter, fear of the abuse of technology, fear of abuse of authority. These are my fears and this is my 10 min blurb.

Submitted: January 05, 2018

© Copyright 2021 Aranea. All rights reserved.

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