Glass Half-full

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic

Very short piece, probably doesn't make any sense to anyone but me. Apologies if it's difficult to read. Comments appreciated.

Submitted: November 19, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 19, 2017



Glass Half-full


I remember crying to my mother once, because I didn’t understand why everyone thought I was weird. I struggled to connect with people. Not only was I always told I was smarter than everyone else, I started to believe it. I’ve always been passable at most things. Sometimes I try something out and I suck at it but mostly I am perfectly average at most things and above average in but a few. As I said though, the blind chants of my family drilled deep into my head, penetrating the layers of hate and fear and hurt, reminding me that really I am quite smart. But I really do wish I wasn’t.


I was a quiet, morbid child. Pretty, yet odd, something about me was never quite right. I wasn’t quite meant for this world I don’t think. I always had a reasonable amount of friends, at times I was considered popular and smart and funny. But years on, although I am still encircled by enough other lives to sustain my own, I get it. I realised that I am weird. I’m not sure what it is, if it’s the way I look at things, or the way I talk about them, the way I hold myself, or the way I hold others…maybe something about the eyes, or my hands, the way they sit…it could be anything, and it could be nothing, it could just be an energy that slowly reverberates through me, just a little out of time, pitchy.


Now at first I didn’t know I was different, I just wanted to be. But as I experienced life and death and the spectrum of emotion in between, I began to see that the world flickers past everyone’s eyes a little differently. When I had my heart broken at 14 when my sister kissed my boyfriend before I did, I shut off outside. It didn’t matter anymore, the risk was already too great. I controlled my eating, I controlled my life, my studies, I wanted to break down, to be what they made me feel, nothing. But old flames even older than the sting of newly lost love blossomed like an abandoned garden, out of control, deeper and more twisted than anything I could have imagined before. Fire sneaking in to lick closed raw wounds, these new lights breaks in, shattering the dust clouds beginning to settle on my shoulders. My heart wants to want again, to hurt and feel and maybe we get close, maybe it begins to thaw, and that’s enough for it go up in flames. Broken hearts must be somewhat like kindling…thin and brittle, easily coaxed to destruction for just the chance and tasting life again.


So we let our selves fall in love, probably a number of times, probably some more than others. And then again, that one anchor of humanity is shattered again, a sisters betrayal, her disregard, the embarrassment, the shame. I am not enough. Not for these people, not for myself. Darkness descends. I wait there, peering out, throwing light in front of myself desperately when I can, always a hollow girl, now barely even a shadow. We start to feel that, our mind spreads paper thin, none of the things they tell you actually work. Everyday is more predictable or more unpredictable than the last. You become bored of life. For what can it show you now, more disappointment? A forfeit or consolation prize? Do you even deserve that much?


Put your trust in others and it will be broken. Trust is dirt. Trust is blood money. Trust is an agreement between enemies or friends, an agreement to be transparent, but aren’t we all just afraid of becoming ghosts? I know I already am. For as long as I can remember I’ve worried about being dead. Not that I am afraid of dying, just that I’m already dead and I don’t understand that yet. A lost soul, trapped between realities. The pain goes numb, anything I did feel fades to grey, I feel my soul curl like burnt paper, dear god don’t let anyone else breathe life into these lonely embers for I fear I will be totally consumed.


So it doesn’t hurt anymore, we have rationalised it. But the ache is still there, there is still an emptiness, which no one waits for you to come home, ready to be in your arms, excited to hear of your adventures and endeavours. When you’re fragile its easy to slide into something serious. You are so scared of being broken that you yearn for someone to make it all better, to take it away or better yet, give you another reason to end it all. Call it off and move along. This place has never been home, These faces have always been wrong.


I let myself fall, heavy and dragging, pulling him down with me. I tell him he’s special, he tells me that he loves me. I’m 17, I know that he doesn’t. But I like the way it sounds, I like the flutter I get when he says it, a sickly sweet lie, swilling around my stomach. This feeling is new, its different, I have more control, no more betrayal, I have cracked the code. At lights out I pour my heart out and in the years that follow pull small parts out from you, holding your hand while we stare horrified in the fading light.


Eventually it all comes out. The hate, the fear, the lies. It happened again. I would say I was angry, I would say I was sad, and these are all true but more than anything I felt that horrible old embrace of loneliness return, cold, flat arms, encompassing my shoulders. Devour me ground, take me to where they make these people, or where they end up. Where do I go? What am I supposed to do in these situations? I don’t know if I should fight for better or settle for worse. The slow, grey swell of humanity offers its insight. Some say stay, some say go, some say change, some say grow. But here I am, the same grain of sand, lonely in a static hourglass, waiting for nothing, feeling nothing, being nothing.


I have a big personality; potentially I have many knocking around up there that I don’t really understand. I met them all once…when I went crazy. I always wondered what it felt like, to go crazy. And although I would say it wasn’t what I thought it would be like, but it was also totally unfamiliar to me either. I thought I was always crazy, so when the world became a TV show and then a film, then a game, then a drama and a murder investigation I began to panic. People on streets morphed into grotesque creations and deconstructions, lights casting white bands of energy distorting pictures. Making my hands shake, making my neck sweat, feeling my heart rate trip, feeling that sinking feeling again, falling away from it all, only watching from a distance, unable to be involved in this circus anymore.


I was at a party the first time it happened, and I barely noticed until it was too late. Psychosis has a handy way of really sneaking up on you. It’s a battle of wills, only its your own will against all of your other potential. I close my eyes and take a drag, it soothes me. I taste the bitter herb swirling around my mouth, sucking it down, warming my lungs and exhaling I feel at peace, I AM ONE. I am only me. The other occupants are only visiting. Hopefully they won’t be here forever, but we all know you’re happy to let them stay as long as they feel they need to. They are friends after all, your oldest friends. Nearest and dearest, they keep me from floating away almost entirely. Sharply addressing me and reminding me that I exist more than they do and I must continue on, because there must be some purpose to this crowded phenomena.

I write like I’m crazy, sometimes I talk like it too. After all heartbreak was cancelled, due to the fear of burnout, I needed to fill the void of loneliness, to feel someone else’s flesh pressed against mine, reminding me that I am real, I am present, I exist. Current boy of choice happens to be a recycled version from long years past, the second of harsh heartbreaks, a whole childhood ago. Now we tangle abruptly in the night, holding down and breathing hard, taking what we need to survive, vampiric in our relationship, but rejuvenating in its own lewd way. It’s more drama than I need but the release he gives is legendary, head between thighs, hot moans and fingers tugging at bed sheets…make me forget. Let me just be. 

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