  

It wasn’t always this terrifying. I’m trying to make sense of a fractured reality. Late at night I find myself following footsteps in well-worn carpeting that never seem to lead anywhere. Sometimes, as I lay down and feel the weight of another day, I get a knock on my door. It’s an old friend, and it pains me to see her. She’s talking too fast to make sense of anything besides her sobs. Being all too familiar with this scenario, I know nothing I do or say will end her lamentation. Doing what I can, painful as it is, I force myself to shut the door on her, avoiding the penetrating glares of my neighbors, who, crowded on their front lawns, observe the situation with quiet disdain. Somehow they seem to follow my every movement. But I’ve long since grown used to their presence. Leaving the hysterical heartbroken mess lying at my doorstep, whose cries still permeate my walls, I lock the deadbolt. She’s begging me to change. She’s begging me to stop. 

If my nightly melancholic visits weren’t enough proof, yes, it’s evident that I am quite deeply trapped. There are so many things I would take back, so many things I would change. With all of my senses, I experience what I think is the same world as you. I am here. But I’m just not here. An always persistent shadow is my closest friend. No matter where these feet have led me in life, from the tops of mountains, to a lovers embrace, you have always been here. The reality of my outlook is bleak, to put it simply. It feels like a trial run of what existence should be like. Make mistakes, work out the bugs and kinks, better luck next time. Yet, as far as anyone is aware, there is no next time. There is only this existence.  I do not know what it means to feel human, to feel alive. Everything is misaligned. I tell myself I’m strong, I tell myself I’m different. I tell myself that people don’t get it. That people don’t experience life the same as I do, so why should I expect them to understand. I desperately hide behind and protect myself with these mental shields, because accepting the reality of things is somehow worse than lying to myself. The truth is, I am weak, I am a liar, a manipulator. I am violently angry to the point where I have to catch my breath to avoid passing out on a daily basis. My body is permanently disfigured from the various harm I’ve inflicted on it. I didn’t want to do it. I really didn’t.  In my darkest moments, in these moments of destruction and hatred, I am tuned into a different frequency. I am an audience member in an empty theater, watching my life play out. I know the pain I am causing but feel too distant to stop it. Seeing my mother’s tear-stricken eyes when I show her how much blood I’ve spilled is something that nothing short of a bullet will erase from my memory. Seeing my own father lock himself in his room out of fear of the abomination he helped create. He told me he would do anything to stop my pain. That he would give his own life just to stop my nightmares. It really hurt to see him break down and cry. I hate, and I hate so much. It’s a huge convoluted mess, a cavernous miasma that I am blindly flailing through. I hate that I hate. I want to love, I want to love so desperately. I want to be good. I want to create smiles, to create laughter. I hate hurting people. 

One of the things that brings me the most shame about this situation is my constant need for attention. I won’t lie, that applies to this post too. I picked my words very carefully. I hate that as well. I don’t feel worthy of any attention but I deeply crave it. I want people to know I am hurting, and I don’t know why, because most people have empathy. So what sort of good would it do to for other people to know the state I’m in? I don’t understand, but then again not much of anything makes sense.

Sometimes it’s easier for me to sit back and let the shadow run my life. Just tell myself I’m evil. Some people are just evil, right? And as badly as I want love to overcome hate, well, life isn’t a movie. Just because I want things to be a certain way, doesn’t mean they will be. Listen, I’m sorry for hurting anyone. It just- it wasn’t me, you know? This isn’t me. I only ever hurt out of love and fear of being left alone. Which I guess is a statement to how broken I am. You know, it used to be so simple. It wasn’t  always this terrifying. The funny thing is, I used to embrace being different, like it was somehow alluring to be brooding and misunderstood. Maybe people would notice me then.  I’ve always had my issues. But I just didn’t know the depths to which this sickness could reach. It’s really scary, being out on this unforgiving ocean on a slowly sinking ship. With every bucket of water I dump out to save myself I am only delaying the inevitable. I wish I had answers. I wish I had hope. But after years of battling this, after so many tears, so much blood spilled, I have nothing to account for my struggles. I am left even more confused than before. It seems life is just a balance. And sometimes the weight becomes too much. The boat does eventually become swallowed by the waves. The scariest part for me is becoming more comfortable with the end. What we are programmed to fear and avoid most has become a relieving reminder that, hey, I can stop this at any moment. No friends, no family, no disappointment, no failure, no worries, no dread for tomorrow, no more pain. 

I feel insane, because every survival instinct I have blasts so loudly that this isn’t right, yet one voice is louder than the rest, and seems to make sense of the madness. I heard a quote from a movie that really resonated with me. The movie was Fire walk with me.  Two friends are together. One asks the other “Do you think if you were falling in space, that you would slow down after a while, or go faster and faster?”. The friend answers “Faster and faster, and for a long time you wouldn’t feel anything. And then you’d burst into fire, forever. And the angels wouldn’t help you, because they’ve all gone away”. That stuck with me. What has held me back in the past is the pain I would inflict on my family, my daughter growing up without a dad. But somehow even the idea of people caring about my departure seems selfish to me. I don’t deserve remembrance. If karma was real, I would be dead already. That’s how I view it. I live on borrowed time until I come up with the fortitude to silence these voices that keep me up.  I feel like I am already dead. Life has lost its meaning. I’m losing my grip on the frayed rope, the only thing keeping me here.

So anyway. I’m sorry if you read all of this hoping for a resolution or even a coherent post. I’m just in a pitch black hole.  Please, find the balance in your life.

 Peace