The younger version of me meant every word. Every ounce of anger, every “you’ll be sorry”, every single cry for attention, love, and validation. Some kind of proof that he didn’t “suck” and wasn’t just meant to die.
That terrible air; pregnant with promises never kept and many more never spoken. Proud and true we were, trying simply to be ourselves. “I owe you” never entered into the equation, there is no debt to be paid… not anymore.
I’ve spent my time trying to reconcile with the wrong people, trying in vain to make it all mean something. To make it seem like my suffering wasn’t empty and meaningless.
But in the end, they’re just fuckin’ words.
It’s time to clear the air and leave it all behind. The transition from “I” to “we” to “me” has been painful and more enlightening than anything I’ve ever done.
In not knowing myself for so long, I’ve had to find something to cling to and to “be”. I’d put on different hats for a while and see how they fit, but often they’d lose their appeal as people lost interest. I was never at home or happy with myself, so the whole exercise was moot to begin with… but maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe the point was validation.
I never gave myself the permission or the ability to be myself. Weird and wonderful and willful. That skin never felt comfortable because it felt vulnerable and that vulnerability terrified me on a level that I couldn’t fully communicate.
But I’m an adult now. I can go back to being “I” again. There’s no more use in remaining stuck in the past, with nothing but skewed memories of the past to keep me. That house was not my home; it was a prison. Twisted, demented, abandoned.
I meant every word when I was there. I don’t live there anymore, and I don’t need to go back there anymore. I can be me without being that version of me.
Save your breath, because I’ve had enough. They were just fuckin’ words.