Cut

I don’t know what is wrong with me. I was doing well, I almost lost track of myself. For me, coming out of all that darkness was a miracle. I was on track, I felt like I had a direction, besides the anger and hurt and pain. I don’t know where else to write this, to speak it out loud, because this, my most recent and inevitable collapse, cannot be heard by anyone else. This is my only voice, the clack clack of my computer keys. I feel pathetic, spilling up the words here like bloody vomit, because I cannot be alone. I need to put this somewhere, where it may be heard. I can scream and shout my tormented rage no where else…

After my fantastic tangent… It seemed so surreal, too clear and crisp and bright. I overcame my demons, or so it seemed. I thought I could escape. New life. Like a phoenix. I had visions of power rising within me, power over my own life and my own path, burning and fiery like a rising dragon. I put away my knife, my wounds healed, my scars faded. I put away my addictions, my fears, I overcame myself. But it never left me.

I came to the belief that, changing modes, coming into a University, where nobody knew me, where I had been, or what I had done, I could start anew. I stupidly put false hope in the idea I could practically reinvent myself. They would never know. Everything would be okay. I was away from that old world. I would come to a place where… I was not the old me, but the new one. The one no one knew. The one who had deleted an old way of life, an old darkness, and all his demons, so people would not see the pathetic creature he really was, see through him into his shame.

I don’t know what I thought. Everything I have done, all my life, has been fake. I have never understood people. Emotions, interactions, the way they meet in groups and shout and laugh and chatter like monkeys. But I have been so very good at faking it. Replicating their interactions, their rhetoric. Very few people have ever seen me as I really am. Having said that, I do nothing by half measures. When I do feel, and feel I inevitably do… It is in the worst kind of extreme. So dark and painful, biting, bleeding, and Hard I can barely breathe.

I lie a lot. I lie like I breathe. I do not want people to know. Especially my family. I want to keep what concerns me to me. I don’t want people to be burdened by my darkness and my pain. The web of lies I have woven around myself to keep it masked and cloaked astounds me, sickens me, to an extent I did not think possible. I have hated and been ashamed of myself since I was a young child, but it gets deeper. My head never shuts up. It’s deafening in its silence. This is something I cannot put into words. Like a grey mess of static. Numb, but bleeding and raw around the edges. burning aggravation, pain, sitting, sinking its teeth deep into my mind, and though it says nothing, I can’t shut it up. and sometimes, it is very loud. Not the quiet loud, but the VERY loud. so many crowding voices trying to cut me up. hateful voices, thoughts that despise everything, but me most of all.

This never left me. I never stopped being bent up and broken, and I feel Stupid, Naive, to have thought I could escape it. After everything that came before, how could I think it would just leave me. I never stopped hating myself. and I suppose there in lies the key to my inevitable downfall. I am despicable. I am false, and I am a liar. I am selfish, and rotten on the inside. A corpse that still breathes. I am nothing.

And I suppose she reminded me of that. The frantic, too bright energy of the past year has amounted to nothing. She was a lie. I let myself feel for her. I got what inevitably comes of such things. She reminded me. I can’t hate her for showing me the truth, but I can still hate her for everything else. Just a little bit less then I hate myself.

So here I am. Again. Here I am again. Digging in my left arm for buried treasure. slicing wrist to shoulder. I never realised how bad it would feel to start again. I had so nearly convinced myself that I never had, the scars were so near gone.  The shame, yes. The guilt. But it feels good. Justified. Right. The horrible, pathetic justice I can enact against myself. I deserve to be punished, but yet after, in the quiet, when for a moment the fog lifts, I feel so ashamed, deeply ashamed. I cover myself, my wrists, I never let anyone see. I just want to hurt. Cut, Slash and Burn. I want to hurt, and hurt, and hurt.

It was more then a year. More then a year. Yet here I am. Hiding. Again.