Free form, rant-style writing where I just write. No edit, no plan, and sometimes, no punctuation…

“Is it possible that some people are born to be doormats?”

She had considered this many times during her 22 years on this sorry excuse of a planet. She wondered about a lot of things. Some would say too many things. It did, at times, get so overwhelming, that she wondered at the capacity her cranium had for all this bullshit. For if one was to be honest with themselves, what do things like whether some people are natural born doormats have anything to do with the greater picture.

That illusive big picture. Her mother had always tried to point it out to her, to show her what the Big Picture was. That there was some goal, some destiny, some place in life that one had to keep an eye on as they tripped and crawled on bleeding knees and bruised elbows through life. Bite the bullet, eat that pain, don’t you ever stop girlie! Gotta keep your eye on the prize!

Now she was a small girl. Petite being the politically correct term. The fact was that she was tiny, and as a child, she really could not, for the life of her and despite straining her neck, stretching up on her tiny little toes and squinting her eyes (all of which made her look almost like a meerkat) she could not see that damned picture. So she assumed her mum must be crazy. Or that it was something meant for bigger people. Well, it sure was easier on the neck muscles to just keep here eyes to where she could actually see and deal with whatever she couldn’t see just then, whenever she got to it.

Now at 22, she wondered if her goal had been to be a perpetual servant girl. If that was the big picture she had been told to look out for, that her place in the grand cosmos was as everyone’s personal assistant, then her mum really must have been nuts. But oh well, it was now at the point that this was fast becoming who she was. No longer a habit that she had some control over, she was now on autopilot and would probably track down an arms dealer to help out the person trying to threaten her with a fake gun because, what if he wanted to actually kill her? Then what? What would he do with that fake gun? Ill help him out by telling him where he can get himself a real one…

She may not have any control on it, but it does not mean that she enjoyed it or wasnt painfully aware just how much she was used on an excruciatingly regular basis. She knew before someone opened their mouth whether they were about to ask for something or not. And she always felt like a fish being gutted as she proceeded to do as she was asked, all the while cursing herself and everyone around her. And yet, she couldn’t stop.

Another thought that came to her that day, as she sat their at 2:30 am looking back on everything, whether one day she would be featured as a case study in some psychological research. Would they categorize her as masochistic? Suffering and evolved form of Munchhausen’s syndrome where she didnt identify with just one “captor” but all of them? Or would a new condition be set aside for her.

God, she thought… I need to get the hell away!


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