Repression

Writing

Thoughts never fade they just get darker as we try to repress them.

Attempts to escape reality yet everything around me are just as bad as it used to be my heart beat is slowed, my words aren’t coming out the correct way. I just feel dim-witted. Faking smiles more often now than I did before, wake me up from this hazy cloud I’m sitting upon. Thorns upon my fingertips as I reach out to grasp a few hearts hoping for something to feel, hoping maybe it’ll be from the ones I wanted most.

I’d rather feel rejected than to be unwanted so I’ll do idiotic things and make choices that will lead to nowhere.

There is an open-endedness to everything that I do, I do one thing but I should have done another  I can’t truly seem to ascertain right from wrong or decide what’s best for myself. I am a child; I am trying to raise myself. Why, because I was left behind with a heart that is chalk full of a compilation of mixed emotions and uncertainty.

I wouldn’t call this venting or even getting things off my chest, this is me letting everything I’ve repressed for the past six years see the light of these poignant days.

Recently I’ve fallen into passiveness within almost all areas of my life. I’ve achieved a clairvoyance enough that I’ve given up on almost all religion. I don’t want to debate about it or start some sacrilegious movement. I’m simply going to live an existence without this so called “higher power”, I believe that we all have the potential to be our own role models and have faith in ourselves.

People refuse to simply believe in themselves so they turn to religion to get a quick fix. They believe that by praying or worshiping this holy apparition they can be fixed. Yet praying can’t heal you when you’re bleeding, it won’t take away the cancer, the diabetes, and it can’t take away the pain you feel.

You don’t need to pray for anything, get some medicine or just find some inner peace within your hectic life.

Reality always sets a path; it’s a path that you choose. Once you make a decision you can’t take it back. Choices are set in front of me as well as you, we don’t know all of the consequences but I’m addicted to the sensation of not knowing what could happen. The mystery that comes with each choice it’s enticing and hypnotizing.

I have this problem I’ll have an idea and I’ll think about it and it’ll grow with astonishing potential but then I’ll get stuck. It will get stuck upon my mind like gum thrown within the hair of a prepubescent girl who’s unaware of it. So I’ll change ideas, and again, and again, until I’m back to the original idea until I’m stuck again.

A few years ago, I had this idea that I’d find myself someone to call my own. The idea morphed into different females, and different ideas and ways of persuasion and pursuit. I eventually gave up on these ideals and just followed the cliché “be you”, phrase that we are always told to follow. I followed it, it lead me to the same places that I’ve always been. Nowhere, I’m in no rush, but I want to have the life experiences that all of my so called “friends” have.

I secretly envy my “sister” she has everything I could want, she has a family, good friends, and a lover. She lives a life only I could dream of. I envy a lot of people, that doesn’t’ motivate me at all it though.

I’ve been repressing this feeling and I suppose in the end it’s what’s making me sick, I once read an article in class that it’s called “emotional inhabitation” where you hold everything in so long and so much that you eventually can cause yourself to become sick. The article said that eventually I’ll overstress my heart and die.

Me being the ignorant and all I don’t really mind if I die.

I’ve grown accustomed to the loss of life, most of my family is dead and sooner or later, it’ll just be my brother and I.

I remember one day a week or so after my mother had passed away I finally started to attend school again; I went to an Elementary school at the time. I was called away from my teacher who failed to pay attention to. I was called down to the counselor’s office.

As I entered the room I saw a kid of a tan complexion who never seemed to hold his head high, beside him was a woman of glowing beauty and complexion of golden brown, her hair fell down to her shoulder blades and her smile was inviting. Beside her was another kid who can’t seem to remember or grasp an image of. The kids and I were all dressed in our uniforms that we all had to wear. Black slacks, navy polo shirts and a burgundy sweater if you wanted. The woman’s room was drowning in an aroma of depression and filled with toys and toy houses things that would make kids feel safer there since counseling was foreign to elementary aged children. Neither the aroma nor the toys that filled the room bothered me, I took a seat at small table with plastic chairs meant for toddlers and looked around, then down at my shoes. I don’t know why I did but I simply just did. I looked back up and the woman looked at me and then stood up, as she did a prominent bulge seemed to emerge with her. She was pregnant maybe that’s why she seemed to be so happy.

She introduced herself, and then looked at me, I quietly spoke my name. Introductions proceeded.

I didn’t pay attention to any of the kid’s stories nor did I care. It was my turn the counselor already knew what had happened I’m sure all of the schools staff was. She asked me an idiotic question “Derwin, how do you feel about your mother’s death?” I looked at her and racked my brain for an answer.

After a few silent moments I looked up from my shoes and looked her in the eyes and told her “I feel like it was my fault and that I should’ve been a better kid.” She told me I was going through denial. She then proceeded to tell us about the stages of grief and how they make you feel.

I simply stared at my shoes again. She called my name and smiled at me and asked me to come to her if I ever needed to talk. I never needed to talk or wanted to.

After that day, I chose to stay home and didn’t attend school for a month. Unbeknownst to everyone, I found myself in tears at night when I dreamt of the night my mother was taken to the hospital.

Once my missing days of schools finally caught up to me, my family found out. We started attending family therapy sessions. I don’t have a recollection of them maybe because I never wanted to be saved from grief.

My conscious mind can’t recall these moments or anything about the sessions.

I suppose there will be a moment where these things will awaken or possibly I’m just not mean to remember it. Perhaps I just don’t want to.

 

 

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