There is this special feeling of overwhelming humbleness when you reread your own words and cannot help but cry at the truth of them, the knife that cuts the deepest leaves scars you cannot see. Sometimes they do surface though and manifest themselves in me being a ball of hopeless sobs and whimpers. I hate that part of me possibly even more than my perfectionism, or maybe that is my Mr. Perfect talking again. I do hate being helpless and weak though, I hate being unaware, I hate not knowing, I hate my flaws. Weak spineless creature of solitude, no one wants you; no one needs you, you are a parasite. Stop thinking about that bridge and just go there… and this time bloody well make sure you jump! Weak, sorry good for nothing.
Damn, this hurts… The pain in my soul is almost palpable, I feel I cannot contain it and letting it spiral out of control. It makes me want to not be, hide in a corner, stay alone and not infect anyone with the misfortune I carry around with me. Today I had an appointment with my psychologist, which was rescheduled already once before due to me not showing up, but I slept through it once again. My cold has upgraded itself to a nasty fever, inflamed glands in my throat and a throbbing headache. My temperature fluctuating between 39.2 and 40.4 degrees centigrade. So I slept through my late afternoon appointment… again. I managed to do so the other time as well. This makes me feel extremely anxious, I fear going again, I cannot face myself at this time. No excuse I can think of will justify it for me. I clearly need help, but somehow make myself miss all opportunities to get it.
That is because you are stupid, clearly not good enough. You try to silence me, you try to contain me, but you cannot even perform the simplest of tasks. You can never get away from me, as I am you, or rather what you should be. Not this miserable piece of crap that has the endurance of a sloth. Want to change? Listen to me for a change and actually do as you are told! Maybe there might be something to redeem, though I sincerely doubt it.
I am tempted to believe every single word, to follow the commands, let it take over and probably end up somewhere in even darker territory. I am also tempted to just give up, not care and just wallow in my misery. For what am I if I am not my failings? I know nothing else really, as I seldom hear anything else reverberating through my mind. Still somehow I manage to write it down, put it into words. Give myself a place to store these tormenting ideas and demands. I am trying hard not to listen to my thoughts saying that this attempt to vent my feelings is a colossal waste of time and that it will not have any impact on anyone but a few moments of laughter at my inadequacy, my shortcomings, that I found a way to waste time of others once again.
It will hurt, I knew this from the start. But my one great achievement is being able to keep posting, keep talking, keep writing. I cannot do it as often as I would like, but the simple fact this has not stopped at the first few hurdles makes me feel somewhat proud of being able to at least be honest and keep at it. I hope to be able to keep going, regardless of being noticed or not. I am not Mr. Perfect, I never will be, but maybe this will be the first few steps to reclaiming myself and who I can be.