I don’t know. I don’t know who I was. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who I want to be.
Every time I try to understand myself, I can’t. My body goes numb, my eyes go blank, my breaths get shorter. I don’t want to see myself, I don’t want to peel the layers, I don’t want to go any deeper. I hate who I was, I hate who I am, I hate who I’m going to be. It’s too late to fix things. It’s too late to try to. It’s too late to start over.
I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know who I was. I don’t want to know who I am. I don’t want to know who I want to be.
The truth hurts more than fiction does. My world is fiction. It’s all made up. I try to make myself believe it’s reality. I try to wash out the dark stains. I try to lighten the darkness. I try to think it’s all gone. But, it’s black and black never fades. It stays and it stays forever. I’m not who I make myself out to be. I can’t change the person I really am.
I have a terrible relationship with change. I like things in order. I like my bed made, I like my clothes folded, I like my cupboards locked. Because when order is lost, everything is lost, I am lost.
My room is a mess. If I had my way, order would be restored, but I don’t have my way. There are always others. At school, I share a room with my friend. At home, I share a room with my sister. My roommate throws empty noodle cups all over our carpet. My sister throws her dirty clothes all over my bed. I trash the empty cups, I fold the dirty clothes. A day later, I am doing it again. I have no time to build my self, I’m too busy avoiding change.