Keep on counting

1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10. 
Again.
1... 2... 3... 4... 5...

My survival depends on those steady, repetitive digits. Without them, I fail to keep a calm face. Without them, I fail to be indifferent.
It's hard to describe the present, because whatever what was written before was the past.
There's a lot of mindlessness, small intervals of thoughtless fun, and silent streams of tears that don't matter.

Whenever a chance comes, I dive into whatever comfort I can find in the arms of carefree friends, who really aren't my friends, who don't know what I'm feeling, who don't know what I need, who don't know me.


So I keep on counting until it's an automatic jerk reaction to any type of confrontation.

I'm just past blaming everyone or everything.

I just want to burn, and I want to count while in flames.

Hold on me.

Father is home. Before he came, I ran around the house cleaning, pushing everything back into place, opening up cleaning products that have never been used.
I made the house sparkle, inside and out.

After I was done and was out of breath, I looked at my hard work, and had this deep urge to destroy everything.
I wanted to tear the plaster from the walls, break all the glass windows and burn the furniture.

Now that I look at it, the battle of rage and tears rushing through me was not one of mere anger at a paternal figure, but because I was just so goddamn pathetic.

I still wanted to please him.
I still wanted to have his acceptance.

It was a mistake to think that I was  rid of him.

He still has a hold on me.

"Do you love him?"

Father is coming home this week.
Which prompted me to ask mother, "Do you love him?"

Guess

There was silence on the other end with intervals of silent muttering.
"I think so," she finally answered.

An interval of silence lapsed.
She asked, "Are you asking because of the hardships we have between us?"

I wanted to laugh out loud, not because of the obvious problems they had, but because she had considered the unbelievable pain Father put her through as mere 'hardships.'

"No. The last time I asked, you said 'No.'"
She stared at me with guarded eyes that accused me of stabbing her where it hurt.

"I guess you changed your mind," I stabbed again.
"I guess I did," she said.

3:13 PM

3:13 PM

When it hits exactly 3:13 PM, the afternoon sun sits right in front of my window, bathing everything in my tiny corner of the world a golden color.
Warmth emits from the windows, and laying on the floor with my eyes closed, I curl around it trying to get it to seep into my chilled body, willing my body to forget about everything and nothing.
As the light pounds into my eyelids, I smile as I feel the loosening of my chains of worldly expectations and my drive to be someone I am not.
When it hits exactly 3:34 PM, the sun isn't in front of my window anymore but in front of some other soul's window, leaving my tiny corner of the world back to its mundane colors and dust.
The ties are re-knotted, the pressures are again placed on the shoulders, and I am still lying there trying to remember what the poised gratification felt like.

Problems

I talked with Naomi about our issues with the world, the problems that seem to hinder our way of life. We expressed how difficult it was for people to just sit there and listen, that just lending their time for a while was as helpful as they could get. But she also thought that it was so difficult to release her troubles to someone else. What if they become disappointed in me? What if they see me in a negative light?

The fear of being unaccepted was clear.