Thesis: I swallow a bee for each ill deed done
this got more weirdo wannabe ottessa moshfegh the further it went. TW for self-harm and wishing death upon your father in gruesome detail
It’s five past one and I’m sitting in bed, feeling bad about myself. Sometimes I feel crushed by how unfair everything seems. I don’t know, I don’t wanna go into detail because I’m scared I’ll end up realizing I’m in the wrong halfway through. I can’t have that right now; I just wanna listen to music to drone out the pit in my stomach. I punched myself in the face again. Well, against my forehead. I think I like it — the sharpness of the pain. I also started slapping myself again, hand flat against my cheek. I’m beginning to cry. My dad used to do that and now it’s the only way I can clear my mind, breathe for a split second, without it lasting, without the reminder.
I think about giving myself a black eye, though I wouldn’t know how to do it. I think I’m too scared of the mark. I wish I weren’t so weak, that I could go through with things.
I feel really bad. These past few weeks have been rough, worse than expected. Sometimes, when nothing bad happens for a while, I start yearning for it. The calm is unsettling sometimes, like the moment right before your pasta water starts boiling and you just stare into the pot for something to happen and you can hear it already, see the steam rising up, fogging up the window you forgot to open, misting your hand with warmth when you hold it over the hole in the lid. I don’t know. That’s kind of what it feels like. I don’t.
It’s like — I know it’ll happen eventually. So I become impatient. I always have been impatient. I can never get enough air to breathe. That’s why the pain helps. And music.
This is not something I want to talk about. I feel like I’m bursting at the seams but I don’t feel like crying. Earlier, I was outside for a while, skating around in the dark. My lungs are fucked up from slowly morphing into a chainsmoker and the cold I’m still battling, so, not enough air, but it was nice regardless of that.
I wish my father would die. I’d be sad for a while. Probably forever. But I need him to go away. I cannot stand being around him. I don’t want to to speak with him or look at him or hear him or sense him. He disgusts me. I physically cannot stop myself from grimacing when he’s there, when he talks or laughs or my hand brushes against his. He is not a good man. I hate him so much it makes me want to throw up. It’s a visceral thing, my hatred towards him. I feel it everywhere in my body. My bones are brittle with it.
I just want him to die. I don’t know how. This is making me cry. I feel bad for saying this. I don’t want him to get into a car crash. I don’t want him to kill himself. I’m not Catholic, but I kind of think my dad would go to Hell if he killed himself. I just want him gone so badly it aches. I think the pain of his passing would be enough for me to always be able to breathe freely. Like a continuous blow to the head.
I saw a video of a boy who survived getting shot in the face. I wish that would happen to me. I don’t want my dad to get murdered. I don’t want him to have a hole in his face. I don’t want him bleeding out and coughing up blood. I imagine his lips cracked and covered in red. I wish he would go away and die and I wouldn’t have to know how.
Am I horrible for thinking these things? For asking for this? Am I going to hell? I think I’m there already sometimes. I need to get out of this house, but he would still be here. Going home wouldn’t be something to look forward to.
Some time two years ago, I think, I had this vision of living in an apartment with my mother and my siblings. I was stupid enough to tell my mother about it. She’s so useless. Nothing ever changes. She is so weak. Both my parents are, in their own ways. It makes me resent them. I imagine spitting in their faces sometimes. Pushing them to the ground. They’re so small. My father is so very small and pathetic and insignificant and worthless. God, how much I hate him.
I am aware that this reads a lot like a dramatic diary entry after a minute issue. I’m not gonna lie, it is exactly that. Just — everything bubbles up. I don’t like when people make me feel bad. Someone needs to avenge me, no? Since no one else is fucking doing it, especially not my mother, I have to do it myself. They don’t get this rush of emotion, I know that. They don’t even pretend to understand. I think that isn’t fair. They had enough time to come up with believable lies.
Someone needs to punish them, right? How else will they learn? I wish I could give myself a black eye and make everyone believe my father did it. In a way, it’d be true. I’m just saying things I actually think. I’m just being honest about my feelings in a way that isn’t destructive. I think that’s okay.
I imagine a big dog ripping into my father’s face. His skull cracking. He’d be unrecognizable. He wouldn’t be real anymore. No more monster. A devil, consumed. I’d be free.
When I saw my dad had a black eye from an argument he had in a bar a couple years ago, I felt so strangely protective. I think I couldn’t be angry at a dog. It must have been provoked, right? It’s a wild animal after all. I couldn’t blame a wild animal for attacking my father. It’d be his fault. He was probably drunk and loud and embarrassing. He’d deserve it. He’d deserve getting bitten to death for that, right? Because if not, why do they do it to me? Why are the scars of their teeth on my face justified, if he wouldn’t deserve it?
I kiss the dog on the head. Give it a pat. Scratch it behind its ears. Thank you, Angel. I love you, Angel. I love you, Angel. I love you, Angel. I love you, Angel.