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.
