Aside from a newly bipolar disposition – I go from crying along to Adventure Time songs to gritting my teeth into my pillow and wishing an asteroid would wipe you off the face of the planet -- my floundering self-confidence, my ever-present and currently validated self-loathing, I am okay.
This is not the truth, but hey we’re all liars here.
I have difficulty emoting, regulating my thoughts and words, corralling everything into legible speech. So I write. And I may or may not post this somewhere that others may or may not see, but that’s not really the point. The point is I need to get out of my head. I need to put this down so it doesn’t drive me mad, because this is what I do. I obsess over the why of every situation. What started as entertainment, creating stories in my head, putting myself in the shoes of some other character fictional or factual, had the unsavoury effect of making me constantly suspicious. Hyper-aware and intuitive. My brain works through observations, minuscule details that mean nothing in the real world, but could quite possibly mean everything. This is why I’m so good at figuring you out. I got your number, babe. I got everyone’s number.
Which leads me to the hardest part of all of this. Why do I keep doing this to myself?
I cannot claim that I am entirely moral or flawless, but guilt doesn’t eat me up inside at the thought of all the wrongs I’ve committed. And I have committed wrongs. But as proficient as I am at figuring everyone else out, I’m terrible at understanding myself. I am my own enigma, and I take full responsibility for all of my pain and suffering.
You’re a shitty person, and I deserve better. ß This is a lie.
I am a shitty person, I just don’t lie.