Less of that, more of this

I’ve erased everything I’ve written multiple times. I can’t get anything to come out right. Not good enough. Not eloquent enough. Not meaningful enough. Not raw enough. I’m a brutal critic. So brutal.

I’m picking at a scab on my right hand trying to figure out what exactly to write. Mostly a form of procrastination. I don’t know how I got cut. It was probably while I was rough housing with my dog. I don’t care how it got there, it’s a convenient vent for my anxiety. Pick, pick, pick. Pull, rip, and tear. Teetering on the edge of self harm.

I’ve been depressed so long, I’m not sure if I’m suppose to feel any different from this. But then, mania. That feels amazing. I’m amazing when I’m manic. At least that’s my perception. More than likely it is nothing short of delusions of grandeur, although I’ve never thought myself to be all that grand. Delusional at times, yes. But grand? Nope.

I have stashes of self help books. Can you really help yourself that much? I don’t quite know. All I know is I’ve never felt quite right. Always out of place. Confusion and chaos are tap dancing in my head to the tune of “You’re never gonna get it!” I probably won’t. Those books are collecting dust.

I still dream. Maybe one day I’ll be less of that and more of this. I’ll live in this place and do these things, and all will be like a storybook with a happy ending; a happily ever after, even. But how can I be that if I’m not this, and how in the world will I live there and do those things if that storybook is, in fact, a tragedy? Do I write this story? Where did I put my pen?

 

 

 

I Don’t Belong Here

I don’t belong here. That’s what I tell myself when I’m feeling especially lonely. Strange that it brings me comfort. It does, though. Because I’ve never belonged. I’ve never fit. Not even now. Telling myself that I don’t belong here voids some of the suffering; it’s a reason for the question of why. Ironically, it is with this acceptance, I’ve found a certain sort of belonging; a solidarity with others who do not belong.

But, sometimes depression twists it all up and I do ask why. Not belonging here becomes painfully present. My mind recounts all the ways I don’t belong, on repeat. It’s paralyzing, this despair. I close my eyes, and every moment where I was told I was nothing, plays like an old, silent, black and white film of horror.

Why can’t I let it all go? That’s what my sensible, logical mind asks. Who am I without all this? How do I let it go, and not forget? Actually, how do I forget? Because, I have no need to remember for the sake of reckoning, or vengeance. Those who have harmed me live their own hell, I am sure.

Forgetting simply won’t work. The impact of these tragedies is too far reaching. There’s been a fracturing of my mind and literal brain damage.

So, how do I move on? I don’t know. What I know is that every year I gain more perspective. Every day I learn more about who I actually am, without all those tragedies. Some days I swim in forgiveness towards those who hurt me. Other days I am swimming in my tears. Some days I sleep with sorrow. Other days I am a voice of strength and comfort to others who don’t belong here, either.

I imagine that where ever it is I belong, it is within. Loving, forgiving, caring for, trusting, and discovering myself.