Another year has come and gone.
Still, here I sit.
I have begun to understand some things, here in my prison. I see now what my adopted family did to me. I see my faults. I see how and when I was crushed to the point where I needed a helping hand that did not come so instead of brushing myself off and moving onward, like every time before, I sat, filthy, exhausted. Why get up if you keep getting knocked down? it is the only thing I can depend on, other then the moon and the sun.
I can barely speak to anyone anymore. I can barely stand in a queue waiting to pay for items or enter a place. I have trouble ordering a beverage at a counter. Communicating has become so difficult. I feel physical ailments. It’s been over a year since I felt an emotion. I still speak the same, my expressions are the same, and when they spill out of my mouth like a poor habit it gives my brain pause “You don’t really mean that”. Little things, telling someone you are happy for them, is a lie. I’m not happy for them, or anyone. I don’t remember what happy is actually, just that I don’t feel it. Not sympathy, not fear, not love. I do not feel. I know wrong and right. I remember, based on previous convictions what I would do and why. I feel like a robot. I am programed to react now based on past reactions. Or not, as I’m not coded. Sometimes I try something different, say something off the wall. Still, nothing changes how I feel, or don’t feel. I don’t change. I am watching myself decay.
I had an escape plan. It didn’t get to even begin. He hasn’t worked. He lives off me, while torturing me. I told him today I am so sick of being his hostage. It was after he parked the car in the middle of the street, though there were places to park proper, he just took out the ignition key, said “I’ll be back” and got out, dashed off into the house. A car was driving up behind as he did it and I began to protest “Just park!”. He doesn’t care about consequences, why would he do that when he can leave me sitting in the passengers seat, in the middle of the street, and without a key.
I hate thinking suicide is my only way to escape this. I refuse to kill myself.
Speaking of, just recently I was thinking if I did, people would easily pacify themselves with the belief that it was inevitable. If he did it, they would blame me. I shared this with him and he said that is because the people that know him don’t really know him at all. Which was my point exactly.
Asking for help, when you really need it, has this myth about it that it will be there. This isn’t Hollywood. No one swoops in the last moment. If you are disabled, especially socially, and being abused, chances are it’s tough cookies. You are on your own. Wither and get by or die to escape the suffering. That’s it.
I keep hearing my mind play “Some guys have all the luck” on repeat. Yes they do. Must be nice.