anchored_astronaut
Member
- Nov 25, 2019
- 33
The audacity, ignorance, and lack of empathy required to utilize this phrase toward someone you know jack shit about never fails to make me want to die even more than I usually do.
I'm glad you, stranger, have a good life- a life so good you can't fathom that anyone else might not. Really, I am. In fact, it delights me to be reminded that there are lives on this earth worth living.
Mine, however, is not, and you haven't the knowledge nor authority to decide for me whether or not that is true.
How dare you assert that a childhood full of verbal and physical violence, poverty, and isolation so extreme I didn't realize those things were abnormal until my early teens wasn't bad.
How dare you assert that an adolescence full of violence of an even sicker kind, including a period of honest-to-the-gods, nonhyperbolic captivity and a rapid decent into drug abuse and reckless relationships when my already fragile and damaged soul failed to cope wasn't bad.
How dare you assert that a dead-end adulthood, damned to cohabitate with one of my many abusers (who while having ceased to physically hurt me refuses to stop emotionally tormenting me) despite having explored every possible avenue of escape isn't bad.
Sure, some lives are beautiful, sparsely peppered by periods of pain.
But some lives are an ugly inversion; heartache and horror relieved for only a beat here or there.
I can't live for those rarities.
It's not just a bad day.
It is a bad life.
I'm glad you, stranger, have a good life- a life so good you can't fathom that anyone else might not. Really, I am. In fact, it delights me to be reminded that there are lives on this earth worth living.
Mine, however, is not, and you haven't the knowledge nor authority to decide for me whether or not that is true.
How dare you assert that a childhood full of verbal and physical violence, poverty, and isolation so extreme I didn't realize those things were abnormal until my early teens wasn't bad.
How dare you assert that an adolescence full of violence of an even sicker kind, including a period of honest-to-the-gods, nonhyperbolic captivity and a rapid decent into drug abuse and reckless relationships when my already fragile and damaged soul failed to cope wasn't bad.
How dare you assert that a dead-end adulthood, damned to cohabitate with one of my many abusers (who while having ceased to physically hurt me refuses to stop emotionally tormenting me) despite having explored every possible avenue of escape isn't bad.
Sure, some lives are beautiful, sparsely peppered by periods of pain.
But some lives are an ugly inversion; heartache and horror relieved for only a beat here or there.
I can't live for those rarities.
It's not just a bad day.
It is a bad life.
