Monday, 17 November 2008

• Bailey Marie Forever

  Who was I? The subject had come up at times before and as every time came up I think I have changed “who I was”. From that I come to the conclusion I don’t know who I am. The whole term, “who I am”, seems so large, when it is only three simple words and it seven letters altogether. There are words with more letters in it. Deep meaning words seem to have a small amount of letters. Love, for instance, only four letters, but if told in the romantic term can be something life changing, making the other person feel flattered.
      I remember a time when I was with a couple of people, they were best friends. Going on and on about how this girl didn’t have common sense at all. Some guy was in love with her. Saying she would think love is a drink. Both of them ragging on the girl, and one of the boys tried to make a joke and explain love. Who were they to explain love? Who was he? Was he ever in love?
  Slowly, I got offended on the fact how he just tried to sum what love was. Had he actually ever really experienced that feeling before? The guy would probably tell me he had felt that way towards a person before. Everyone said they felt that towards someone at a point. Even I was a convict of saying the word love to someone I might have not really felt the feelings for.
  Reminding me of Eric , one of the people I lead on to believe that I was in love with them. All the gross and disgusting thoughts came back of our sex life. He was so kind and gentle to me and it was something I didn’t appreciate at all. I wasn’t into violent acts or anything, but the fact he cared so much about me and how not to hurt me, it was a turn off. Caring, that was the enemy. How could I be hurt by someone who cared so much for me? Every thought about him and how he looked at me with love in his eyes made me sick to my stomach. Every passionate kiss trying to rekindle our dead lust, made me hate him even more.
  I liked being hurt, as horrible as it sounds, I preferred to be used by someone then to have to actually stick by them. My body felt gross and all I did was want to shower. Eric didn’t get that, so I stopped sex altogether by the end of the months. Not that we fucked so much. Then Jerry came and left not only in sex, but in my life.
      All of this was a defense-magnums to keep from a real relationship or putting myself out there. I was afraid of rejection, as everyone else. If I had someone who wanted me for that moment, it wasn’t rejection and it wasn’t being stuck. I knew that we couldn’t have real feelings and I could easily get myself out of something. At the end of every kick-it buddy or friend with benefit I was left feeling worse about myself. I’ve gotten used to the whole thing that when something better comes along, I pushed it to the side. Wasn’t that the plan, but it all still hurt just like the first time. The pain never left…leaves.
      I still look at myself wondering if this is what I wanted my life to be. As a little girl, sitting on the grass staring out to an empty street,  I day dreamed about my life, how it would be when I was older. If I would hang out with the “cool people”, would I even be “cool”? Would I be out a lot, or stuck at home all the time? What was I going to be like? Would I stay the little girl as I once was? So many questions filled my mind, I just wanted to know. Some days, I didn’t even think I would make it to be 16, 17, or 18. A gut feeling thinking that I wouldn’t make it, at every birthday I give myself a little, “Hey we made it, just another year of keeping myself from whatever is out to get me.”    
      Maybe, that is the problem with me. I think something is out to get me, that everyday I’m running for my life. Not literally, but that I have only to live this year, that before my next birthday they will take it all away from me. Why would I feel that way?  After awhile of the people are just out to get you mood, I stopped caring. Enough things came across my path, for me to just surrender. If I got into trouble, I would argue back. After awhile of that, I stopped and just stared, telling them only so and so years before I left. That is when I would stay in my room, or cage. I have spent a lot of time in my room, evaluating what I was going to do in life. Writing is the only thing I seemed to have control over. At a  job, I did what was told, friends I let myself be goofy to keep them entertained, my parents I let them hear me as much as they wanted to, family saw nothing of me and when I put words to paper it wasn’t to impress anyone, but myself. I get call the shots in everything I put down, your feelings don’t matter and either does the person next to you. I get to describe who you are to me and I get to put what you have done to me.
  That is probably why I keep my writing to myself. Showing off people place opinions that I will care about and then I would be writer for others. I would have lost my power and become weak. Words were my “spinach” you could say. They make me strong and when the world turned it’s back on me I could make it seem like I slapped the world’s ass. When I couldn’t make sense of my life words came to my rescue and put my life to place. It is a gift being able to explain things to people, because there is always someone who feels the same way and believes there is no one who feels the same. In my words I have the power to change people’s lives
  

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