Lots of people claim to hate themselves- their stomach, their hair, their bum, their personality- but really when it comes down to it, I think they are pretty happy with themselves- but who am I to judge them?
Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night because you can't bare the pain you are feeling, not a physical pain but a deep excruciatingly painful feeling inside that no matter how many drugs you take can never, ever go away?
I remember sitting in front of my mirror and just staring for hours on end wondering how such a revolting thing could have been created. But I don't hate myself anymore- this feeling is beyond hate. No matter how much I torture myself it just won't disappear.
I remember vividly the day my parents just gave up on me. I was sat across the room from them, rocking backwards and forwards crying quietly. My mother became angry, and my father couldn't touch me, couldn't even look at me, they were scared and couldn't bare the helplessness they felt. In the end they both looked me in the eye and said "We don't know what to do, I give up." "I give up"- I suppose I knew it before they said it, but the actual words made me crumble. I brokenly rose and clambered up the stairs, I hated them for a while, then I hated myself even more for putting them in such a horrendous position. After that they acted as if it had never happened, any of it. How could they just forget? Of course I went along with it eventually- it was easier for them, and in a way it was easier for me. The guilt that I was baring slowly disappeared, but I never got over it really. "I give up" I find it quite funny now though, I can sometimes sit and laugh at it all- I think it’s the only way I cope sometimes.
I find it strange how people react when I tell them, they are either angry or dumfounded. Best of all is when they suddenly turn really serious. I used to get a buzz out of seeing how they reacted as I told the story- I know it sounds twisted, but the only way I could get pleasure, for a time, was watching others squirm as I retold the horrible details. Then I started to think about what I was doing to others, how I was hurting them, and I started to lie, pretend it was all better, and because it was easier, however ludicrous my story was, they went along with it.
In the end, when I couldn't lie anymore I ran away- from them, from me I'm not sure- all I know is I caught up with myself, they never did.
I have this recurring dream, I have it every night:
I'm staring up at the black, star-less sky, not even the moon can be seen. Fears trickle down my face leaving blood-red tracks. One step and it can all be over. Glancing over my shoulder and all of the worries in life are observed. That can all end, just one step. Tingling builds in my stomach, like knives piercing, revealing specks of blood. The sadness and consternation bubbles inside rising, rising higher until they reach the throat.
Take the step, and there will be no need to worry.
A deafening cry emerges, bursts, out of my mouth, the deadly silence is broken. Crows rise from the branches of the restless trees, screaming out their alarm. They have the eyes of vultures that stand out, glowing against the darkness of the night. They are there to pick at the pieces of the sorrow left behind. Left behind after that single step is taken.
Then it happens.
Falling, turning, tumbling through the whirlwind of dread, horror, anxiety, loneliness and worst of all- it ends.
Nothing.
And then I wake up. I still feel the anxiety, I fixate on the horror, I am surrounded by loneliness, and the sorrow is still there, and so am I.
