You only ever invested enough to enjoy the taste, ignoring the meaning behind the heart shaped boxes. It was all about the moment for you, that sweet, satisfying mouthful. You never let the chocolate take it’s time to melt on your tongue, coating your world in a coco dream. For you, it’s all about quantity over quality. Price tags need to have a 50% discount before you’d even consider making the purchase. The best part of buying chocolate isn’t getting to eat it; the best part is getting to give it to someone else, someone you know will want to share it with you. You aren’t good at sharing, and you refuse to be a committed part of somebody else’s world. You only want a momentary fix, a quick sugar high. You’ll never experience a lingering sense of satisfaction eating like that. You’ll never have comfort in simply unwrapping the candy bar, because you’ll only ever be in a rush to shove that sweetness down your throat. You rip right through the fancy printed labels, not even bothering to appreciate the subtle details. You want to quiet your sweet tooth, and you don’t mind gaining a few cavities along the way.
I understand that what I’m doing isn’t exactly “healthy,” okay? I can comprehend that the momentary sense of euphoria is the result of a release of endorphins in response to the pain. I could get the same effect from something like running, or fucking. Yet here I am, all alone, exhausted from doing fuck all over the past million minutes. Actually, I’m probably being a bit harsh on myself, because I have done a few things over the past week. I managed to drag my ass into work, Monday through Friday, 8AM to 5PM. I didn’t get all of my work finished that I should have, but I can take my work laptop home, so I can play catch up at some point in between my wild and wacky weekend antics (which is, of course, just me, sitting alone in my pitch black bedroom, with nothing but a 2 liter of Mountain Dew as sustenance and my non-work laptop as a means of feeling connected to the world, even if only through binging early 2000’s Anime and re-watching old YouTube videos). I also did some shopping this week, so my pantry is full. It is true that 99% of that pantry space is occupied by Cup Noodle, but I did get a nice variety of flavors, because I care about having a diverse and well-rounded diet. So yeah, I’m chugging along at a nice, even clip. I deserve a reward for having such a productive week, right?
And that’s where all these scars and bruises come into the picture.
Everything else gives me nothing, no sense of accomplishment or purpose. I’m just an emotionally vacant hole, and I’m backhauling in all the bullshit I can find in a piss poor attempt to feel full. Of course, that’s not how anything works, so nothing gets better, and I’m still a husk of a human. Is it so strange that I would turn to self harm in this situation? To me it feels like the logical conclusion. I need anything to wake me up, even if only for a few moments. The edge of a knife against my wrist gives me the rush I need. It’s a sharp pain that quickly fades, but the ridges that decorate my skin will tingle for about an hour. I can extend that feeling beyond that initial hour with a little bit of pressure. A few quick punches right on top of the cuts really helps to wake up those nerve cells. If I can keep it going for a solid 5 minutes, all of the skin around the cut will become a marbled mess of black and blue, and the cut itself will widen up a few centimeters, so the blood will keep flowing and flowing and flowing. By the time the bleeding has stopped, and I’ve cleaned myself up in the shower, the sight of my fucked up body in the mirror is more than enough to draw from me some genuine, untethered laughter. I mean who wouldn’t just lose their shit if they looked like this?! Both arms, from the shoulders to my fingertips, are patchworks of bruises and bright red lines. One glance and it’s so fucking obvious how much I deserve to look like this, or even worse. And I latch onto that thought, because I could look worse, right? My hands still work, which seems sort of fucked up, considering what they just did to my arms. So I bury those smartass hands in my bedroom walls. But my legs are also working just fine, having walked me from my computer chair, into my kitchen, and back again. They are accomplices to this travesty! This crime cannot go unpunished! So I light up a few cigarettes, using my legs as ashtrays, putting out the final dot of heat on my ankles and thighs. And yet I still feel like I’m forgetting something; and that’s when it hits me! I still have lungs that keep pumping me full of life-giving oxygen, and a stomach that continues to try and break my belt with its constant need to expand! But worst of all, I still have this heart, beating away, pushing blood through my veins even as I try to force that blood down the drain! I still have this heart!!!…. This heart…. That feels like lead…. This heart that can’t seem to carry me anywhere, and so I find myself leaning on the shoulders and ideas of others to carry my things, things I should be able to carry with my own strength…. This heart that has nothing left beyond the basic, barbaric function of keeping me alive, even if the rest of me is begging for it to fucking stop….
Well, I can take some pills to turn my stomach into knots that will surely come back up my throat and all over my toilet. And those same pills will grip my muscles, drying out my mouth and making it harder to take any sort of breath, so my lungs will be screaming at me shortly. But my heart? What can I do about my heart? It’s the one responsible for this mess, more so than anything else. But what can I do? It’s getting late, and I can feel the rest of my body shutting down. At this point I can only hope this isn’t going to be me simply falling asleep. I have to hold out hope that I finally did enough, that my heart got the message loud and clear. I have to believe…I’ve finally paid enough…to earn a little bit of peace…
But this was just another normal week for me. I’ve done this for 6 years now. And yeah, I understand that what I’m doing isn’t exactly “healthy,” okay? I can comprehend that the momentary sense of euphoria is the result of a release of endorphins in response to the pain.
But I can’t stop.
I could never stop.
Until my heart can catch up to the rest of me, I’ll ever be able to stop.
So I’m just waiting for that moment.
When I can finally, finally stop…
I think I enjoy the night
Because it feels like
The beginning of the end.
I can use that darkness
To find myself again.
In the morning, it’s as if
The broken bits of me
Have become presentable,
Even taking on the form
Of avant garde art;
A patched up soul,
Center stitched heart,
All held together
By a long forgotten truth;
It’s okay if I make mistakes,
And even though it hurts,
I can still believe
That I deserve love.
Maybe you’re right, maybe I’ll never amount to anything. I might spend my entire life writing these poems and essays and novels and never get a single one published. It’s likely that the only people who will ever read my words are people who follow my tiny blog. I’ll never get paid for writing, and I’ll never get famous. My parents may never respect my dream of being an author, and my friends may ridicule me for wasting my weekends storyboarding the next chapter of the book I’ll never, ever finish instead of spending some time in the Sun. I might even look back and regret ever starting down this path of winding words, but that doesn’t matter. I want to be a writer. I want to put my soul into something, because I’ve been inspired by those who have written before me. Every book, every poem or screenplay or short story I have ever read lives inside of me. I can feel the passion coming from every sentence, and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world, to read the soul of another person. I want to give my fair share to the world, and not because I feel I owe this world anything. I want to give myself away on these pages because it’s what I want to do; I just want to pour my heart out in the best way that I can, and that means pen to paper, keystrokes to LCD monitor, fancy Eagle feather quill to authentic, hand crafted, medieval scrolls!
I let you tapper my dream of writing until the only thing left was a point so fine it would break the second I tried to put any weight into my words. I let you whittle me away, and that was my mistake. I paid for it…I’m still paying for it, every day, BUT, I also didn’t give you everything. Brittle though it may be, I still have my own pen, so I can write my own story. It might not last very long, but so long as I still have it, I won’t give up. I’m going to keep going, until I can’t go any further. Even if I go nowhere with my writing, I’m still going to write, and I’m going to share it to my blog, and I’m going to fill journal after journal with every story that pops into my head.
So maybe you’re right, but maybe you’re also 100% wrong. I have already amounted to something. It might be a small something in a niche corner of the literary world, but I am something, and nobody can take that away.
I’m not doing anything that should warrant such an extremely negative reaction from myself. I’m eating a sandwich while I finish up some work, but that last bite…it’s hard to explain, but that bite made me feel so hollow, that it was all I could do to keep myself from crying. I took that bite, and immediately dropped the sandwich and just started shaking. I couldn’t chew, couldn’t swallow, couldn’t do a damn thing. I felt so small, yet so bloated. I wanted to disappear, but wanted someone to notice me, to tell me I’d be okay. I wanted somebody to remind me that eating a sandwich is a normal thing, and it shouldn’t cause a mental breakdown. But everything causes a mental breakdown now…I haven’t gone a single day without breaking…and I’m tired…
My body is tired. My back is screaming at me to get up and do something, even if that something is jumping off a bridge. My hands and face and mouth are all dried up, unsightly, scaly things. I’m sure my reflection is haunting, or at least a consistent visitor to every sort of nightmare the human mind can concoct, but I wouldn’t know for sure, because I avoid mirrors and glass windows and still bodies of water, knowing that if I saw whatever it is I have become, I’d do anything I could to destroy that monster…I’m so tired of being the monster…for once, I wish I could just be the hero.
I’d valiantly strike any mirror with my fist and enjoy watching a kaleidoscope of my own blood run across the now serrated surface.
I’d bravely shatter any glass windows, gathering the broken pieces into a nice, sharp pile, and roll around in that bed of crystal needles in a stupid, childish attempt to cut my way through this terribly uncomfortable skin.
And I’d heroically smother any image presented by a calm waters surface, forcing it under in a wave of self-righteous rage, inflated fear, and layer upon layer of bravado to mask my doubts…I’d drowned anything shown in that waters reflection, even if it means spending the rest of my forever at the bottom of an empty Sea.
I’m not doing anything that should warrant how much I hate myself, but I’ve come to view my very existence as a crime, a blight on society. I am a monster, and the only acceptable kind of monster is a dead monster. I don’t want to be a monster, and I wish I could know what it’s like to be the hero, so really I’m just killing two birds with one stone, but in this case, those birds are just me and my reflection. I just have to take that stone, grind out a nice, sharp edge, slide that makeshift dagger across my throat, and watch as that monster in the mirror gets exactly what it deserves…and I can go out with a smile in my heart, knowing I finally did something good for the world; I finally became a hero…
I love the sound of a car door opening, and the taste of orange juice after I brush my teeth. I’m a big fan of Indie YouTube musicians, and I can sing along with any Disney movie. I chug entire cans of Coke because I enjoy the tingling sensation it creates in the back of my throat. I can’t help but smile whenever I look at a clock at the exact moment when one minute ends and the next begins. Holding my baby nephew makes me nervous, but when he reaches out for me to pick him up, I’m overcome with happiness that this perfect little butterball wants me to hold him (even if it’s only so he can be close enough to my head to pull on my hair). I always laugh when my Mom and I go see a movie, and she packs all this candy into her purse, and amongst those candies are pickles in ziploc bags and her own salt grinder for the popcorn.
I love some strange things.
I like some weird things.
I laugh at some odd things.
I smile at most cute things.
When you left you slammed my car door so hard it broke part of the frame, leaving tiny plastic pieces that will be pricking at my skin for the rest of eternity. I started eating away my health while ignoring basic hygiene, instead filling my mornings with multiple energy drinks and a tin of wintergreen altoids. I sip away at my Coke through a straw, and every swallow helps wash down another pill or 2. My apartment lost power about 2 months ago, and my alarm clock is still blinking 8’s, and since we just passed the summer solstice, the clock hanging in my bathroom is now an hour to slow. My sister sent me a video of my nephew finally taking his first steps without any help, and she captioned the video saying “Now he can walk over to you and grab your hair without enlisting any aid!”. Seeing that picture and reading that caption made me cry, because I realized nobody in my family knows how short I cut my hair, and that was at the beginning of the summer, and it’s closer to Thanksgiving than the 4th of July. My Mom texted me the other day, asking when we would go see the new Marvel movie, because that’s been our thing for the past few years. Well, the past few years before these past few years. I’ve used the last few years to really hone my hermit skills, so brushing off her question is done out of reflex, before I even entertain the idea of doing something as normal as seeing a movie with my mom.
I’ve broken some expensive things.
I’ve ignored some important things.
I’ve cried over some tiny things.
And I’ve let down myself and everybody around me…because failure is my thing.
WordPress reminded me today that I have been blogging for exactly 1 year. I didn’t think this blog would do that much. I didn’t have any social media profiles back then, and I was alone. I figured my blog would get 0 followers and nobody would ever read a word I wrote. But as time passed, I found out that some people did want to read the things I wrote. Some of those people were even kind enough to give me feedback on my writing. I hit 50 followers and was really shocked. I mean really, I wasn’t sharing my work on Facebook or Twitter, nor was I becoming an Instagram poet, but I was finding people who read what I wrote anyway. 50 turned into 100, and just today I hit 232.
232 people I have never met, but people I now know. I love coming here to post my work, but even more than that I love coming to this space to read what others have posted. It’s so varied, so many different voices from every corner of the globe. It’s every human emotion, sprawled out onto my computer screen, and I have the pleasure of reading through it all at my own pace.
I wanted to say thank you to everyone who follows my blog, and to all the blogs I follow, because they are willing to share their hearts and souls with the world, and I find that beautiful. If you would, please consider sharing my blog with those whom you think might enjoy some of my writing. I know I’m not a real writer, but I love writing, and I have enjoyed sharing it, and would really like to keep going, to keep growing, and to see where this path might lead me.
Again, thank you to everyone who follows my blog, I am forever grateful!