i don't know what it is about new experiences that i imagine they're going to be completely cleansing. that i'll just go places, smile, meditate, eat well, have epiphanies, and read books in a mere few sittings. my abusive lover the inner-demon follows me everywhere. i'm staying with family in what's kind of like a mini-portland, and i love it so much more here. and i keep worrying i have to keep an ear out at all times, so they'll sense that i'm doing that and this will stop them from talking about me behind my back.
dear post secret. for a long time, i have been waking up at home when my mother and brother are getting ready for work early in the morning just in case they start talking about how much food i'm eating.
dear post secret. this substitute teacher once brushed his crotch against my hand that i had raised to answer a question in second grade and he was ugly.
dear post secret. i continue to live in fear of sexual things happening while i'm right there as if i'm invisible. sometimes i cough when this is happening to remind myself i'm there to get it to stop, and it doesn't.
dear post secret. sometimes i smell semen for weeks at a time.
dear post secret. i feel disgusted with myself after i masturbate and just roll over in hopes of sleeping it off.
dear post secret. for years i've been masturbating to my ex-boyfriend who i firmly believe is dead now sexually abusing me. it's the only thing that gets me off and i fucking hate it. it also makes me doubt i have an imagination.
dear post secret. not having invisible friends as a child also puts me in the compromising position of doubting my imagination.
dear post secret. i was raised in front of the tv. i don't want to hate myself for it anymore.
dear post secret. orgasms are underwhelming and feel kind of weird. i blame meds for this.
dear post secret. i believe i've made most of my memories up except the ones i don't shut-up about. i don't shut-up about them because i at least kind of believe they happened.
dear post secret. my self esteem is so low that i hate myself for hating myself not that hate exists.
dear post secret. i don't believe anything except the self-hate.
dear post secret. i went absolutely apeshit on two people this year and apologized to one of them. the only reason i did was because i didn't want the opinions of people who saw me to change.
dear post secret. i listen to music when i write to inspire the rhythm of poems which makes me feel like a total plagiarist.
dear post secret. i never talk about my most traumatizing experience anymore, but the worst part about it was that there was no escape. the second worst part was i was terrified for a while after it that black people hated me.
dear post secret. my last two GAFs i saw were both 55.
dear post secret. the only reason i wanted to recover from my alleged anorexia was because i believed my inner dialogue would improve. it never did. and i still don't believe i was ever "truly" anorexic.
dear post secret. how stereotypical is it that i can digest sylvia plath, anne sexton and virginia woolf better than any other writing?
dear post secret. i feel inspired by the pain of the middle east.
dear post secret. i feel inspired by the pain of africa.
dear post secret. my nickname in first grade was crybaby. i have been a crybaby my whole life. i tried to quit a few months ago but gave up after a few weeks.
dear post secret. i question my reasons for my "humanitarian" acts.
dear post secret. i don't identify so much as an addict as much as someone without boundaries that are "supposed to be obvious".
dear post secret. when i'm in public i believe someone is going to try to reach out to me on craig's list missed connections.
dear post secret. i heard depeche mode in toys "r" us yesterday.