The final straw (once again)

 

I began to get better. I was even harvesting hope and good thoughts inside, and projecting them into the outside, to become a healthier human being. Boy was I wrong. I stand here now drunk, writing yet another pointless essay.

 

I hope you all know I’m always sorry, and for no reason! I didn’t do anything that bad to deserve this pain, but I still have it so deep inside. Trying to overcome it has become an everyday task, my single plan. But I crumble and fail once again.

 

Once again I stand here empty and apologetic, pessimistic and jaded. This life makes no sense. I try to find meaning, ‘cause I have very good things around me that lift my spirits. But then there’s the disease I’ve mentioned one too many times. The disease that changed me.

 

As I sit here listening to music, tumbling ‘cause I’m buzzed, I try to answer every “why?” in the book. It is never going to stop. I was just kidding myself. I am a hazard, a threat to myself (and others sometimes as well). Isn’t there a challenge somewhere? To not cry, to get over the shit you’ve been through… ‘cause everybody else can do it, so why can’t you? Well guess what people? I belong to this fucked minority who are sick, dellusional, depressed and just plain ill. I was welcomed into the group of rejects, the misunderstood heroes who battle with hell on a daily basis, for an only reward: to survive. And what is it that I’m surviving for? I know that isn’t a fair question to the ones that care about me, but seriously folks, if you know me well you must know that I’ve been fighting for a long while now, with not much progress except for the fact that I am still alive.

 

Alcohol, suicide attempts, drugs, self injury, self bashing and constant put-downs: I’ve been through it all for the last 10 years, only to learn to numb the pain, to not care about others, to go about my way faking that I’m ok when I’m not. Once again I apologize for the pain inflicted upon myself and my loved ones. I tried and tried to stop myself, but the leash is off as we speak. I can’t say I won’t hurt myself. I can’t say I won’t make myself bleed once again.  All bets are off, I was holding myself back to help myself, but what’s the point? I can’t get professional help, ‘cause then everybody will know I have a fucking problem…so I must remain a fake till I can set my soul free.

 

I don’t mean to be rude, I’m just honest. I became a punching bag, taking everybody else’s problems in and fixing them without a “thank you” of any sort. I put the world on my shoulders and the weight crushed me. So I fixed it all, stopped being a pushover and saw my light. It felt good, but it was brief. I went back to “shitty” ‘cause I’m just more comfortable not trying to get better. I’m used to being like this. The “misery chick”, the “loser”, whatever you wanna call me it is ok. I know I won’t care. It’s hard to not have a heart, but believe me, it is doable. I stand here without restraints, waiting for hell to take over, waiting for my pain to become my master and dictate my rather gloomy destiny. I am not perfect and I never intended to be. I’m not all that sorry anymore.