I was going to write about my trip, but now I don’t want to.
I feel like it’s getting harder and harder to trick myself into thinking that there’s any value in any of the words I’ve written. And I mean that literally, too. $25 is too much for 150 words.
Sure it’s a gift certificate, but…they paid me a dollar for every six words. And they weren’t even words I liked. I wasn’t even trying. Not that it matters. Nobody says a word to me when I really am trying to say something meaningful to me. Those words aren’t worth the energy it takes to move my fingers across the keys.
I should write everything, I suppose.
I should never speak. I should never say what first comes to mind. I did that last week and have ever since been engaged in the mental equivalent of flaying off my own skin. We talked about the dreams I have and it made them laugh. I was sorry I didn’t have any newer ones I could share. For all the darkness in those places I go when I sleep, the three words in my most recent dreams have hurt me more than any monsters. I could not share that.
I should just never speak.
I try and console myself that I’m not the only one with this condition, where I say things that others make me regret so much that I’m terrified to speak in front of them anymore, but I can’t make myself believe that other people pay for blurting out their thoughts as much as I do (and I’m a “quiet” person who doesn’t typically blurt things out!). They don’t pay dearly enough. I never get to see them suffer, and to be honest, that makes me resentful.
And that’s when the sound of the grindstone starts up and runs against the words I imagine saying over and over again until I think I might use them for cutting…and it would hurt me, yes, but I wouldn’t be hurting nearly as bad, knowing someone else was getting cut up, too.
I really am trying to stop myself from getting there. It’s not like what I had (have?) been so worried about before—that I would lose control of something monstrous in me—I think now what I am wary of is attempting to invoke that monster and doing harm on purpose. And it’s not even that I want to harm anyone. I’m just sick of feeling like I suffer so much at my own words, and that when I offer that suffering to anyone, they won’t take it from me. They see it and they—what?—don’t believe it’s genuine? want me to suffer more before they’ll tell me I can stop?
I wish I could stop.