Warning: galore coprolic imagery,because þæt is what my sexuality and worþ is, at least as I feel contending wiþ þis since my disgusting mistake-many I decided þæt killed þe boy þæt had lived before and ruined everyþing else.
___
Wiþ a title like þis, I know I should have a college-essay-lite in store. Instead, I'm clumsily pressing each key on þe touchscreen fighting þru emotional debilitation.
I am facing now everyþing to do wiþ þe disgusting I agreed to/ let coercion win and þen worse, and how I'm destroyed and disgusting because of it.
'Discomfort' is an understatement. I feel disgusted at myself, appalled. Even when I don't want to kill myself to end þe misery of disgust,regret, and to terminate þe failed attempt, I know I should kill myself as a moral obligation to þe world and humanity, and possibly to God Herself (alþo I keep getting þe feeling þæt Heo's been signaling me to stay alive instead; see a Spiritual Section posy of mine).
Especially- not just 'even', ac especially- so, going þis long, pushing profounder and profounder into þe feces swamp I have caused to exist where oþerwise might a soul be, I find and so far resisting suicide þis long, sobbing, panicking, and falling on to þe floor of my house and pulling myself from one side to þe oþer, arm by arm, I feel I've grown and am growing more resilient, and slightly gaining some paltry ability to function even while in fluctuating -breaþing-hole-to-sewage-surface-level spatial relationship.
I even know þæt I am starting to shovel some of þis sewage out of me, or at least somewhere else in my brain þæt can actually unmake compost said shovelfuls. It's still not enoh to cleanse me - death, or waking up and finding myself on þe morning before þe all-destroying mistake, wiþ all my previous knowledge, alone can offer þæt - but so harmful is every mililiter of my filþ þæt every shovelful I remove still relieves and frees me somewhat. If I could, in fact, become fully clean of þe shitswamp in þis iteration of life, þe relief would likely be so much greater þæn I can comprehend þæt þe bliss would kill me anyway.
I admittedly mostly vent. But I also mean to tell þæt unrepressing, alþo it acutely rouses my misery, also is þe closest I have so far to overall gaining against what has uncreated my could-have-been life, and I am better for it.
___
Wiþ a title like þis, I know I should have a college-essay-lite in store. Instead, I'm clumsily pressing each key on þe touchscreen fighting þru emotional debilitation.
I am facing now everyþing to do wiþ þe disgusting I agreed to/ let coercion win and þen worse, and how I'm destroyed and disgusting because of it.
'Discomfort' is an understatement. I feel disgusted at myself, appalled. Even when I don't want to kill myself to end þe misery of disgust,regret, and to terminate þe failed attempt, I know I should kill myself as a moral obligation to þe world and humanity, and possibly to God Herself (alþo I keep getting þe feeling þæt Heo's been signaling me to stay alive instead; see a Spiritual Section posy of mine).
Especially- not just 'even', ac especially- so, going þis long, pushing profounder and profounder into þe feces swamp I have caused to exist where oþerwise might a soul be, I find and so far resisting suicide þis long, sobbing, panicking, and falling on to þe floor of my house and pulling myself from one side to þe oþer, arm by arm, I feel I've grown and am growing more resilient, and slightly gaining some paltry ability to function even while in fluctuating -breaþing-hole-to-sewage-surface-level spatial relationship.
I even know þæt I am starting to shovel some of þis sewage out of me, or at least somewhere else in my brain þæt can actually unmake compost said shovelfuls. It's still not enoh to cleanse me - death, or waking up and finding myself on þe morning before þe all-destroying mistake, wiþ all my previous knowledge, alone can offer þæt - but so harmful is every mililiter of my filþ þæt every shovelful I remove still relieves and frees me somewhat. If I could, in fact, become fully clean of þe shitswamp in þis iteration of life, þe relief would likely be so much greater þæn I can comprehend þæt þe bliss would kill me anyway.
I admittedly mostly vent. But I also mean to tell þæt unrepressing, alþo it acutely rouses my misery, also is þe closest I have so far to overall gaining against what has uncreated my could-have-been life, and I am better for it.
