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July 13 Birthday Thoughts

July 25, 2013

I just keep on thinking that when I am dead things will be better or, at least, nothing will matter. That’s where I’ve found myself in life. Wondering if anything or thinking nothing matters. I feel like I’m at a major crossroads or at a dead end. I can’t tell anymore. I know I am the scapegoat. I know my heart has been ripped out again. I know someone who manipulated everyone against me while attempting to manipulate me. I know a pretender and a phony. I know I’m so fucking sad, it’s hard to believe. I know I’m so fucking angry I can hardly stand it. I’m insecure. I know I’m not pure. I know I’m not happy. I know that this shit is going way too far. I know I’ve fucked up again. I know I’m screaming to be held, I’m screaming! I’m screaming. I spent my childhood screaming for you, and you never came. Then, instead of soothing my pain, you only muffled my screams. Suffocate me! Kill me! I screamed for you then. You only hurt me more then I am the scapegoat. Sick and disturbed. I am insecure. I am not pure. I am not happy.


You, Ms. “Whoever You Are,” I know I shouldn’t have felt strongly for you, but I did. I tried to hide it, because I was sure you’d hate it. But I did, because you gave me the sexual attention I needed and blew me kisses that made me forget about that other woman and what she did. I’m sorry to burden and stress you. I’m sorry I’m such a loser and a failure, and I never made the right choices. I’m sorry that you got caught up in my twisted spiderweb of madness, and you never even knew it and never will. You did misunderstand me. I’m not mad at you. When will the pain just go away? When? It will always return. I know what’s wrong with me, and I cannot fix it. Maybe I’m a bit unwilling to fix it. I feel like I’m falling away from reality. I only care about writing songs and singing, and I just want to sit there and do that all day, in the dark, alone. Maybe that’s not healthy. I’m a decent writer, I think, but maybe I’m not even that good at it. What happens when I run out of things to say and I lose my voice? I’m afraid I’ll die before I get the chance to do something great. Afraid the chance to be something great is surely passing. Afraid I won’t be able to be something great before I have to die. I feel like nothing. I feel like nothing. I don’t want to feel anymore.

I think you are a liar, and I will never believe you. Always have and always will, you say. Once I did but never again, I respond. I’m so fucked up you wouldn’t believe. I guess I’m not as strong as I thought. I’m all twisted up on the inside. I just don’t want to face the day anymore. It seems, I believe that nothing matters enough anymore to wait around for it. She was so perfect to me. Her pretty face and body. Her smooth little walk. I fucking hate myself for making you feel bad. I’ve never hurt a woman and never would.

I know I’m kinda strange and awkward and temperamental. I have no problem spitting and cussing, breaking things, hitting myself, punching walls, punching myself in the fucking head. I’m tired of this shit. I’ve only been in prison for 5 years, going on 6, but I’ve been locked up my whole life in more ways than one.

Locked up by Jerilyn (my grandmother/ foster-mother) in my bedroom. One time, she beat the shit out of me over a t-shirt that I wore. It wasn’t the one she’d told me to wear. Another time time, when I was sketching in a notebook, she stabbed me in the hand with a pencil and told me that drawing was for people who had a life. She only always noticed what was wrong with me and never ever told me when I was right. I can’t recall one fucking time. From an early age, I was taught by her that I was stupid, a failure, a loser, an idiot. Time and time again, I’ve proven her right. I believe, I know, I am a failure and loser and at times a fucking idiot, too. I hate myself so much. I know what’s wrong with me, and I still can’t fix it.

I was living in a fantasy, and I was willing to let you go, but I didn’t think you’d rip my heart out so soon. Fuck it. Now you hate me too. My favorite lyricist is Dave Mistaine of Megadeth. I could’t have said it any better myself than he does in his songs “A Toute Le Monde,” “Angry Again,” “Trust,” “Darkest Hour,” “Sweating Bullets,” all of those songs–all of those songs I love.

Son of a bitch, I’ve just got to get it off my chest, but I know it is going to return. It never goes away. It never goes away. As soon as I fuck something else up, which should be soon, it will all come back again. Fuck life. It’s getting loud. I get tired of people’s voices sometimes, especially when all the talk is about bull shit. Shut up! Shut up! All of this is bull shit. All of it. I’ll think of you as I fade.

People are so stupid, the way they want to force you to live. Like when someone tries to commit suicide and they revive them. Do you truly think they attempted suicide because they wanted to live? Yeah, I’m sure that they attempted suicide, because they are so full of love and hope and joy. Probably they haven’t felt those things in a long time. Most likely they can’t stand themselves and don’t want to be here anymore. Yet people have the nerve to return them to their suffering and think they did something good.

When I was 17, I was attacked and beaten with a baseball bat. I got life flighted with a life threatening brain injury. I’m not afraid to die anymore. I don’t think there is anything for me in prison. Nothing. I KNOW there is nothing for me in prison. I’m a completely screwed up individual, and I don’t think that I want it any other way. I don’t know who the fuck I am. I don’t know what the fuck I want. Gotta go now — too wordy, too rambling, too much bull shit.

The humiliation is the worst part — I am the scapegoat again…

From → Art, BLOG

  1. I am here to tell you that I have been at the bottom and you CAN get through it. People judge me for my past and I tried to end my life less than five years ago. Don’t do it, Sean, don’t end it. That is the easy route. You can help people with your experiences and show them what it means to be a ‘survivor.’ YOU this is you I speak to.


    • I don’t know sometimes. I can’t explain it. It’s too much. I’m here at the moment though. Thanks for your kind words.


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