Today, I was just walking down the street and felt an overwhelming sense of failure–sadness. I don’t know why I keep having these days/moments of going in and out of this state of being. I am tired of being beaten down by myself, but I don’t know how to stop. I am tired of crying, but look for anything to supplement my agony because apparently, I believe I deserve to be in this state of torment. I drink myself stupid then take anxiety pills to chill me out. That’s not a good option, I know, but it is what works at the moment. Then again, that’s the problem with a moment, they don’t last. I am a time bomb and I can hear the slow ticking and it just takes the smallest thing to set me off when I’m in that moment of despair. Raging beast lives within my mirrored image, ready to ripe to shreds any inanimate object just so I won’t hurt someone physically. The flesh on my bones are rough from the years of pain my body has gone through. Others, I don’t know their struggles; their lives might not have been cursed like mine and maybe their skin isn’t so tough. Out of fear of their safety, I retreat into myself—fueling the bomb that wants to explode. I do have will power and control. With the help of therapy, I know that now, but who knows how long I will be able to hold onto a system that is merely a façade for who I really am. This demon living in this broken body waiting to be let out of its core to experience the world the way it was supposed to be lived. The only thing that I want is to be happy, but that is the one and only thing that I can’t have. I don’t know how to be. I can tell someone I love them, but how real is it? In my head, I see these things as fantasies. In reality, I want to be left alone, but I’m plague by the excessive banging in my own head; telling me to cut deep and breath, run away and leave this crap behind. I ask myself where can a person run to, to get away from his/herself? Thus, I end up walking around aimlessly. If I’m lucky, I have a car at my disposal to distill my solitude behind metal framing. At least, I can find comfort in a roomy vehicle and, of course take the stress off my legs.
The things I think about are unnatural. They always have been. Too afraid to share, too disturbed personally, to really care what the world thinks of me. I’m a walking contradiction that has no real hope of ever achieving peace because this demon inside me, as strong and persuasive, will not allow me to go on my merry way of living a “normal” life. I have suffered my entire life for one thing or another, why should this be any different? Maybe peace isn’t something I should be after or can truly obtain. Maybe, a better quest would be to find out–what is the real picture, the painting behind it’s rundown replica that I have created for myself? Who am I am really?