When I Close my Eyes.

A lot of things happen behind my eyes.

Sometimes lecherous nothings,
even I didn't know I could come up with.

私、堪忍袋の緒が切れました
あお @Pixiv

Sometimes cute boys,
even though I know they could never exist off of paper.

雲雀
nin @Pixiv


But in the end, I get bored and let my mind wander off somewhere else.

Like today.
More like this morning, but still today.
I woke up, and immediately thought about if I wanted to go to school.
I make this decision every morning.
I think of this question every morning.
Except for the weekends.

On some days, right after I ask myself this question,
I get a feeling.
A feeling that says to me, "You look like crap.
You're going to look like crap.
You're going to hate yourself.
You're not going to be the best person you can be,
Not today."
That is the feeling I get.

Lots of my past still haunts me.
Especially when I get this feeling in the morning.
I begin to think about my father,
about my nephew's treatment,
about my sister's old hatred towards me,
about my mother's hatred for my father,
and using me to get back at him.
In my gut, I get this clench,
like needles are pushing through.
Straight into my stomach.
Tacking it to my spine.

It's kind of comforting, since I don't have to feel like I'm swallowing them,
but I guess that's a crude thing to say.

I don't think I need "special help" to get over my past.
Not at all.
Maybe I'm wrong, but I really don't.
Since no one notices how skin-deep this pain has sewn into me.
I, myself, don't think of my past as anything special anymore.
Well, not as much as before anyway.

But for those people who don't know my past,
I don't like how they don't understand me.
Don't accept me.
At one point in my life, I thought it didn't matter how much one person knew about your past.
The person you are right now is all that matters, but when it's like this.
I feel weak. When my past isn't known to the people around me.
It's like I have to hold back.
Like I have to pretend to be someone good.
Then I hate myself, and let myself slip a little.
Then I feel the hate.

It's a never-ending cycle. That viciously kills me.
Chases me, haunts me, hurts me, and continues to hunt me down.

The person I am on this blog is who I really am.
This person: Umi, is who I want to be.
Honest,
Real,
Raw,
&
Beautiful.
Not Me.

It's true.
I've had happiness at least once in my life.
When I lived with my dad.
I had money, two rooms (one with my computer and another with a bed), a dog and a cat, people who cared about me (Sora, Emma, Crystal and Cloe and I guess my dad and my "auntie"), and all the time I wanted to myself.
Sure, I was a little lonely, but I was definitely happy.
I didn't think I was obstructing someone else's happiness. Which turned out to be my auntie's. And she destroyed mine in return.
My mother wasn't any happier. She missed me, but I moved out with the determination to get happiness and to ease her of just another mouth to feed.

When I think of my past happiness, I open my eyes.
And I breathe in the scent of my mother's smoke through the husky air of the old house, full of dust and mould.

Today, I ate mango pudding from Malaysia, in that cheap plastic cup, and along with that cheap plastic spoon.
I cut it open for once, using the handy knife on the other end of the spoon.
When I made the first, initial cut, the orange liquid came out and I sucked it out.
As I kept cutting deeper, I thought about that girl on sixbillionsecrets. How 1 out of 4 girls self-harm.
I wondered...
Am I the 1 in my group of friends who self-harms?