Everyday kind of went by with something of a blur now, the sun came up and went down just as fast before her eyes and she never even noticed it happening. Having graduated school and was now at home attempting to do college online, it would seem that for this 18 year old, life was going as well as it could at that point. She was content enough with it; always had been, learning how to live with life going ‘it’s good enough’ instead of feeling like everything is as good as it can ever be. She never quite reached her little piece of paradise, though she figured she was as close as she would ever get to it.
In high school she had many friends, a select group of people whom she thought was like her, and were her friends. For a long while it had felt okay, though every year of high school was a different kind of struggle with different people each time. She learned not to mind, had learned to take everything as best as she can, and that optimism was always the best route in life. Though that optimistic nature never always followed her, and sometimes she traveled to some of the deepest parts of her mind, the farthest reaches that no one could hope to tread. Though somehow she always managed to wander out, which made her wonder as to why others could not, what made her so different that she could clutch and hold on tight enough and drag herself out of that darkness which so desperately clawed at her heels.
She still manages to smile, even now as she sits on her couch talking to a friend whom touch was lost for a while and then regained once more, she manages to smile and find comfort in her few minutes of peace. She doesn't talk much now-a-days, trying to enjoy a life shrouded in seclusion. Her fingers manage to move over the keys, typing out word after word of a story long lost which had always fallen upon deaf ears time and time again. Though all the words sound so familiar to her, and the pain still feels all so real of her state of being, she still smiles as she types. Looking into the screen of my computer I can hardly realize that it is I that I’m typing about. Everything we look at together seems so disconnected; I am on the outside looking in to the house, and the girl sitting on the couch barely even feels like me anymore, so I call her a she and sever that connection of association.
She is some girl, with my face and my skin, and I do not resent her for living as me, for sharing in this terrible existence. Those who know her know only the good in her life, how everything for her seems to always run on a good course and she has nothing she could be sad about. She sees it too and often wonders where such lackluster feelings could possibly come from, why are they coming to her?
Her mother too worries about her, she came in the door at around one on this night, and work has been keeping her a lot later than the both of them would like. She doesn’t resent her mother for it any, and her mother constantly would stress herself worse worrying about her children. She is a good mother, a wonderful care taker, and always has been, that woman is my mother too, and she has always nurtured my soul. I love her endlessly, as a child should love their mother, her and I are alike in many ways, which makes it easier to talk to her sometimes.
Even now as I am disconnected from myself, I watch her, me, what is left of the two of us carry herself to release some of the strain on her mind.
She worries that we are lonely, that having too few to none to actually call my friends is causing this… down cast of my emotions.
She doesn’t quite understand it’s not that there is a lack of people in my life; it is simply that those there are not performing at their maximum potential. Like watching someone try and walk up the stairs only to stop and sit on the first step, tell you it’s too hard, and ask to be carried.
Even from back here in my third person view, I can see them failing themselves, the thought is maddening. It makes me wish to choke the life from them and pass it on to someone who would be productive with it, but I cannot, nor do I have the right of such violent feelings.
We are not an angry person; at least we hadn’t used to be. We have become a tangible pair, a vacuum and a jar. One bringing in everything, and another to hold it all in… Sooner than later that jar fills to its’ brim and we run out of space to store everything that is being brought in. What is being brought in never really stops coming though, it just files in quicker and quicker it seems once we have extended past our comfortable reach. One of us burst, though neither of us can really feel the wave of everything about to knock us on our ass. One of us laughs, the other cries, and we restart the process after a wave of destructive anger.
This is how I and my other have lived our lives, one of us is a vacuum, the other is a jar and together we work as a pair, unconsciously taking these roles, unconscious as to what this role may be.
She is not an alter-ego, the woman walking in my skin, or at least what I had thought it was. She is just as lost as I am, as we are, if she is me, then I have failed to recognize my face showing within the mirror back at me.
Is there an end to this, without an end to me?