I'm deleting pictures from my phone. I look at their pictures and see people with more contempt for their father than I saw in the past. I used to see love, or something, but over time they were told that I was contemptible.
Or maybe I'm making that up now. I don't know. To me, they're just pictures that need to be sorted. I don't delete them from the world but put them in a virtual folder, knowing no one will ever look at them. We live these lives and they only matter to a handful.
I'm struggling with a lot of things at the moment, but I hold together. I just spent the last half an hour writing up something about Charlottesville land use for a friend. I'm good at what I do, but I see their pictures and I realize they didn't like having their picture taken by this point.
I took their pictures to remember them throughout the week. I'm up to June 2017 and things had begun to fall apart. My brother showed up from Florida to live here, so they couldn't be here anymore and it took months for him to go. I don't want to talk to my brother anymore. My family always thinks I am the one in the wrong, so I talk to them as little as possible.
I have a friend who gets mad when I express how much I hate myself because I can feel other people's hatred of me. I know this isn't a productive emotion but it's what I have as I go through my life. I was not a wanted child and I can hear my father laughing at me when I was 11 or 12, telling me I was a mistake child.
I've never been the same since. I've struggled with accepting who I am and what I do, and I've run down the hill as fast as I can, writing as much as I can to document whatever this life has been. I know full well that because I am not ridiculously wealthy, none of it matters.
Yet, I'll keep trying because I know I love the three people I cannot name here, and I acknowledge my faults.
And I'll keep going, because I always reset and begin my descent.
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| None of it really matters |
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