Title: Dig My Grave
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Personal work.
Warnings: Slightly scattered train of thought.
Summary: A look within myself, going back to roots in childhood. Deals with death, belief, and love.
Note: This is truth from my point of view, if you ask others who were there, they might see it differently.

I’ve always wanted to go to my own funeral. Even as a child this was an idea that was appealing to me. I had always preferred funerals to any other church service, although as a rule I greatly dislike church services, they seemed to be the one that went by the fastest. And I always had some morbid fascination as to what they would do when they stuck me in the ground. I mean, even at the tender age of 7 I had stopped believing in most of the daily faerie tales you hear about her in North America; the Easter Bunny, Santa, the Tooth Fairy, God and Jesus… I mostly played along for the sake of my parents and two younger siblings. Now let me just point out here that although I didn’t believe strictly in God as a child, I did believe there was something greater than us all out there, but it wasn’t this God my mother and the catholic school board taught me about. It was something else, something bigger and better.

But back to the topic at hand.

Death had become a subject of great interest to me quite early in life. And, to be perfectly honest, it’s never been something I was afraid of. As a child, I never really made any plans of things to be ‘when I grew up’ as I didn’t actually intend on growing up. I figured I’d be dead by 18 and avoid the whole issue. Still, despite my very cynical approach to life from such a young age, I had always believed in love. Why is this, you ask? Well, remember that greater being I believed in earlier? I also believed that I could feel their love. That when I went to sleep, invisible arms would embrace me and keep me warm, almost a replacement for my mother who was as like to hit me as to hug me.

I was a very lonely child partly because I wanted to be and partly because I was forced to be. I never had a lot of friends but even if I had, I wasn’t allowed to play with them half the time. “No, she lives too far away.” “No, that’s a bad neighbourhood.” “No.” “No.” No. I could probably sum up the majority of my childhood with that one word. We have pictures that show I started dressing myself around the age of two, becoming completely autonomous at the task by the time I was three. I know of 7 year olds who still need help to get dressed but I was dressing myself at three. Not because I was a clever child, though that might have been a part of it, but because my parents wouldn’t do that. They were too busy. I’m sure some of my many nannies must have helped me, but I don’t recall them doing so. Most of them I remember as little more than a face, or a pair of hands and a name.

Karen was the one that hit me then moved to calgary the day after I told my parents.
Susan was the klepto who stole tapes of children’s cartoons.
Melissa was the goth who had an abusive boyfriend and first introduced me to JRR Tolkien by reading me the Hobbit. (She was my favourite.)
Kim’s boyfriend was Grant. He sunburned his elbow (and only his elbow) on a road trip.
Tracy had glasses and would always tell us to stick out our tongues if she knew we were lying. She would say it was because the back of our tongues turned green when we lied. She also always answered the phone by saying “Good Morning.” (She was our last one, she didn’t take care of me so much as my siblings, as I was 13 at the time.)

We went through so many babysitters, it was crazy. We never kept any one for more than two years. As a result, there was never any real stability in my life (seeing as I only rarely saw my parents) so I grew up having difficulties with buidling a solid connection with other people. My friendships were all people I clicked with immediately. I had no relationships that involved slowly getting to know the person. Many a time there was a person that I honestly liked, but because we never really clicked, we weren’t friends, just assosciates. That’s just how life was for me and how I assumed it was for everyone else. People I didn’t click with, I was, and still am, always polite to and respected, but I was physically incapable of giving them more. As I got older, I found dating to be the same. Nine times in ten, I would just say no to anyone who asked because we hadn’t clicked. Pretty quickly I had established for myself the personal rule that I couldn’t date anyone I wasn’t friends with. It just wouldn’t work for me. Perhaps that is where I truly ended up screwing myself over.

It’s certainly not a common belief in today’s day and age. Most people are just out for the quick ‘wham bam, thank you ma’am’ and don’t really go for love or romance. Now, I do believe romance is thoroughly dead and have for a very long time. But love is a staple for me. Ever since discovering the invisible entity when I was little. I’ve always allowed myself to fall in love with the wrong person. The most notable were the taken one, the experimental one, and (my current main squeeze) the forbidden lover.

In all irony, the taken one later became my stalker and developed a thing for me after I had moved on from liking him. The experimental one has been forgiven for breaking my heart and I’m very happy for him, now that he’s cleaned up his act and set himself straight. The forbidden lover has yet to hurt me, but at the same time she hurts me with every breath I take. Not only is she one of the, if not the, closest of my friends but I have fallen madly in love with her. We both go nuts if the other one disappears without warning or if we have to go without the other for more than a day or two, but that’s really more deep friendship than anything. She always makes me feel so good about myself, yet at the same time I feel so insecure because she never gives me any assurances that she loves me at all. The last time she told me she loved me was when we had a big fight a few months ago. Actually, she goes on a lot about how she’s never going to get into a ‘serious relationship’ or any of that because she likes to be alone with the exception of a few close friends. I feel… shrugged off by these comments. They cut me deepest of all because I know that no matter how deeply or honestly or faithfully I love her, she won’t love me back. Not the way I want.

So I dig my grave.

I am constantly breaking my own heart, becoming jealous and insecure over a relationship that’s really only in my head. She may call me koibito, but she’s never meant it.

And I am once again the little girl sitting alone in her bedroom, destroying her toys because she’s not allowed to go out to play.