Uh... Not sure if it’s a good idea to publish this... Nah, fuck it, why not?

Oop. Prose deleted the start of this. Damn. The audacity. Doesn't matter, tho, I'll give you the highlight of the paragraph I totally do not remember. Something awkward something something..

Anyway... Where to start. Not an easy question because what I'm gonna talk about is sort of specific? And sort of... Wrong? Oh, no, very wrong. Very, very wrong. I'd say I'm not a bad person... But I'm not exactly a good one either. Minimum level decent on the outside, I exist and I try not to hurt people and I try not to hurt myself these days, too.

I'm... Stalling. Okay, then. I wanted to talk about fear, at first. Because I am ashamed of how afraid I have been all my life. There's tons of stuff over the years of being a people pleaser... Not my fondest memories. But I guess the difference is that I'm not as ashamed of my fear because I do not hide it as much. Of course, I try to. But when it wants to come out of me, I don't often stop it. I don't pretend it doesn't exist so I feel less shitty about myself. It's always been there.

But I have layers. I'm still stalling. I'm still stalling. It's not a criminal thing, per say. I'd never do it. I'd never actually do it. In fact, if you knew me, you would never think I'd have that little thing anywhere in me. Except you'd seen me try to choke my sister when we were kids. Or that one time I threw something at my brother, hoping to cause as much damage as humanly possible.

I think the thing inside me that scares me... More than my fear of people and my fear of the future... I often fear myself. What I have dreamt of. It's a simple thing to talk about, really. I'm still stalling. I shouldn't have read the other post. But I did and it makes me feel... Worse? But you asked. And hey, since no one here knows me, since the worst that could happen is being further shamed, I guess I can try to talk about this thing that's lived in my head all my life.

I am not all softness. In truth, I don't know how much of that softness has been pushed to the front of me to prevent my otherness from popping up. Truthfully, I am also a violent creature. Warriors, soldiers, kings...

I've not only dreamt of my death.

I've dreamt of taking people with me? If that makes sense?

I don't want to make it poetic. I hardly want to explain it. I'm trying but it's hard because I've worked very hard to suppress this part over time. I pushed the violence into my fingertips sometimes, hurt myself to prevent the desire to do much worse to the person that wronged me. A desire only. A thought only. But one that gave me some relief when I was younger. Desire to cause harm.

I could tell you about the days I would imagine killing my schoolmates to pass the time in secondary school. I could tell you about that one time I "accidentally" murdered my Economics teacher in my mind, filled by a sudden anger I couldn't control over whatever stupid thing she said and being unable to look her in the eye since. I could tell you about throwing my father off a building in my head. Torturing this one girl in a silent vision. Even as I write this, I feel a peculiar kind of pain in my chest, telling me to seriously shut the fuck up. That thing in me has long been hidden. Talking about it is a general no-no.

I think it's my brain making up for how powerless I've felt all my life. Because I have. By my own hand, I deny myself the littlest decency. And something cracks a little more. So yes. When I watch shows like Hannibal or read a book like Native Son, that shit makes me feel something. When I witnessed Rhys Montrose on YOU, it felt like a bit of representation for my own thoughts. And I wondered and wondered and wondered...

I don't think I do want to kill anyone. I haven't got the patience or energy, I hardly give enough of a shit to get up in the morning. Murder is actually hard work. But I think the importance of my murder-loving side is to be a balance to that feeling. That I am nothing, that I am no one, that the world can walk over me a million times and I would smile and say thank you.

I recently wrote a seriously thorough murder fantasy-esque post on Prose about a certain roommate of mine, from the past. One that... Well, not to get into detail but she broke me even more. Amplified my discomfort around people with such tragic beauty. You see, after everything went down, I had to live with her for about a month. I had to have exams. I had to go to class and bathe like people do, I suppose. And I did. And I spent the entire time with her pretending that I felt nothing... But... Gratitude? I put a smile on my face and I let them do... Whatever they wanted because hey, fear.

Be afraid. You're supposed to be weak and meek and quiet and afraid; do that. Show that. You aren't allowed more than that.

I think deep down, I was scared to show my rage that day. It comes out in little bursts. I learnt, that day, that I would rather keep it caged than protect myself from actual genuine danger. That I would rather make the world an unsafe place for myself than risk letting that beast in me out. Risk showing that I, indeed, am capable of a violence beyond what I know. That I can hurt and I want to, sometimes. There is danger in my bones and I preferred to keep the mask of decent, good human than keep her from shattering me.

And it's been a year, now, since then. Thought I was over it and then I wrote that one post. It's funny how hidden I keep this feeling. It's funny how most of my self harm over the years was me needing a place to put the burning tar dripping down my stomach and not knowing where else to let it go. And it's stupid. And it's sad. And my vileness is a part of me that I am yet to accept.

I don't know if other people feel like this. I guess it's why I understood the Joker, in some way. Why I often relate to villains. I can understand that strange craving to let yourself go in such a dangerous, depraved way. It is such a small but important piece of me. I think if I listened to it and shook its hand, perhaps my violence and anger could be more than just a thing of shame. Perhaps they have better functions than sitting at the bottom of me like a quiet poison. But I don't really know what to... Do with it? Except... Keep it silent?

I wish I had lashed out that day. I should have. I've had multiple panic attacks since. I've spoken to family and had them... Well. Put it down as nothing much, let's leave it at that. I've done everything to brush it off, to make it nothing. And still, the anger remains, somewhere. Whenever I write about it, it still feels so foreign. I know it when I feel it but otherwise, it's so... Damn... Quiet. Safely shackled where it can't hurt anybody but me, I guess.

I was worried what would come next. Imagine. I had the power to save myself. I could have run away. I could have pushed her back. I could have screamed. Instead, I... Repressed. Instead, I went into a little corner of my mind and turned myself into that mask again, that ever-agreeable puppet robot with no feelings, only a "yes ma'am whatever you want can-do" fucking attitude. And I did it for someone who meant nothing to me. Because I worried about what my violence might do if it finally got to be free. If I finally let it drop from my fingertips and leak out of my skin through a more physical way than writing about it.

I began this silly little essay afraid of what people would think. I end it... Reminiscing. Feeling it. It's weird how I personify my emotions, sometimes. My fear likes to live in my chest, the most. Sometimes it enjoys spreading to my hands, just for the fun of having me shake. My need for solace is a pounding in my head when the rest of humanity gets too loud for me to exist among them, anymore.

My anger is deep in my stomach, somewhere. Forever lurking. If I hadn't taught myself that it was something to be ashamed of, I would have hurt her that day. I would've gotten ahead of myself and been lost to the feeling. I would have felt alive instead of being killed. I wouldn't have let myself be so fucking powerless. It's the most powerless I've ever felt. I was truly reduced to nothing. I'd always been scared of being so drowned in that feeling of utter worthlessness but my imagination never taught me what it would be like. Regret tells me I should have let it out. As does shame, the same fool that tells me keeping it in was probably the best choice.

I don't know what to believe. I don't know anymore if I should be ashamed of something that has spent its entire lifetime with me trying to make me feel better, as misguided as it... Usually is. I used to hate myself so much for existing. Hate it. In the tar, I tremble, I sink, I drown. And I love and hate the feeling a little too much.

I don't know what I've written or why I wrote so damn much and I guess I'm sorry but I guess I'm really not? It's itching at me again. I can feel it. That damn memory triggers so many of my emotions all at once, it's kind of incredible, really. Weak, dangerous, who cares? I'd rather turn my fists to my own chest than show anyone that thing. So it's fine. It'll die with me. But when it wants to rip out, if there's good reason, perhaps I'll let it next time. Self-preservation takes some head-bashing sometimes, I think.

Okay... That's all, folks. Judge me, relate, be confused... Feel as you wish. This was a lot more pouring than I expected. Don't know whether to be concerned or pleased that at least some of the black has been scooped up, splattered on "paper" far from the home it has carved for itself inside me. I am fucking exhausted, now. I feel delightfully ill from this level of oversharing, my forehead feels hot heh. Goodbye, stranger. I could pretend that this wasn't true, I could delete this before any random eyes descended and took a glance at this strange, usually buried piece of my soul.

Oh well. I am one self-revolved delusional fuck to think any of what I'm saying means anything at all to anyone other than me but

I am who I am.

And that won't ever go away. Don't even think I want us to, anymore.

We're stuck together till death do us part, me and myself. Might as well... Shrug and vibe with it, I guess.

Ps. Swearing is the best, sometimes. Je t'aime, merde.