It’s strange to me that feeling nothing is so much more difficult than feeling something. On occasion it can become torturous to be in such a state, to the point where I do or think of unpleasant things purposely to attempt to get myself to react. I get a bit put off by the numbness; it forces me to think of myself more as a machine than a living, breathing being. I’m so tightly, painfully controlled, that I forget sometimes that I do it to myself when the situation calls for it. The rest of the time it is out of my control, untouchable, but then when something goes wrong…suddenly I choose to hit the switch. I talk about this constantly because I can’t get it off my mind, and because there is no one but me to wonder over the ‘why’ behind it all.
On average it takes ten minutes for me to get angry over something. Unless it is a direct threat, my reactions are terribly sluggish and short-lived. Yes, my anger, my only friend, abandons me constantly. I don’t know if I’m going to feel it when I should, or not feel it altogether. I loathe the realization that my actions/reactions are as unpredictable as a a coin tossed into the air; my mood does as it pleases, and it can go one of two ways, but I never know which. It makes me feel reckless, out of control…even a little crazy. How can you not know how you’ll respond? I’ve been me for long enough now, I should know by now, yet I don’t. But I did, I used to know. But like everything else, the shift in me rendered it all useless information.
It’s only recently that I discovered that I can control the numbness to an extent, how I can use it as a weapon or a shield if I just gather enough anger to pull it all off. And that’s the problem, the getting angry enough part. Even when I do manage to get myself into a state of mind capable of switching me over, it can only be done for a very short time. It’s not long before that voiceless thought says to me, You think you can control this, you think you are good enough, strong enough? Flashes of bad memories. Flashes of people I don’t want to remember. Flashes of me at points of humiliation. Self hate. All-consuming. And sometimes it’s so strong that I back down because I’m so mentally exhausted from fending it all off, of repeatedly shouting at myself to shut the fuck up. I break down and let it win, let it make me suffer, all because I’m too weak to fight it. Let it play the memories for hours on end, let it deprive me of sleep, because sometimes that’s better than having to summon enough feeling to care that I’m hurting myself. I fight everyday, I get better, yet at the same time I feel something inside progressively withering away, weakening from the constant pressure. It wants to snap, fold, give way to a power better than itself because it is sickened from all the fighting.
I seek a peace I will never have. I know that there will always be a stuggle until I pick a side. I’ve always been the type to stick to middle ground rather than facing a decision head on. I feel like I lose options if I make a choice. The one thing I do like: open options. Let it beat me into submission, let it tear me apart…maybe I deserve it for all those times I was an idiot and helped others instead of helping myself. I deserve it for being so stupid and caring, allowing the world to decide how I think about myself, concerning myself over their every whim. All the while it said I made a mistake…and that I’d pay dearly for it…forever.
Suffer an eternity below me,
Spread your legs like the world’s whore
Do what they say, forget what you think
You are your own worst memory
It’s too bad you’re alive
But it’s not too bad that you have to die
Accept me, or take a dark fate
These wounds I inflict will never heal
I think that was the fastest I’ve ever written a poem. It’s almost shocking that I knew so well what I wanted to say…. I always felt like in every friendship, I’ve always given so much but never gotten even a small amount of it back. Unwaveringly loyal, that is me. But most of all…I am completely and totally unforgiving, even of myself.
P.S. I found some post cards on the table this morning, which apparently my mom has been sending since the beginning of her trip, but I never read since my dad never told me about them. When I picked them up I felt a twinge of something…maybe caring? But it disappeared instantaneously. She’s been gone almost 2 months, yet I can’t bring myself to care. I can’t bring myself to care about anything. It hurts to be like this…. I can’t love, I can’t care. I can’t be anything but a hollow, lifeless thing. And the worst part is…I doesn’t matter to me.
