“You make me desperate.” No matter what I say, do, or feel, I am a desperate soul. I cry out when in pain, when confused, and when lonely. To avoid feeling, I lash out at those around me. I desperately try to cling to their happiness, to their joy, to their lives. I want to be them, but that can never be. I want to absorb what they feel so that my own feelings can be shoved deep down, completely ignored for as long as I can muster. The desperation is crushing, the feeling unavoidable. I want so badly to get out from underneath this weight, but cannot figure out how. I want others to save me from my own desperation and despair, but that is an unfair task to assign. They do not know what to do, and who am I to judge? Not even I know what to do, and it’s my own feeling. My desperation stems from loneliness, and my desire to avoid it at all costs. I cannot be alone, yet that’s my natural instinct. My survival technique is to be around others, yet all I do is hurt them. The desperation cancels out the urge to protect those around me, and I quickly become a burden. The guilt over being a burden eats me alive, and the desperation worsens.
“You make me hate myself.” Every part of me, hates me. I know that makes no sense, but hear me out. I have been asked what my best qualities are in job interviews, of course. I always lie and make up something clever that makes me seem like I have my shit together, but it’s a fallacy. I don’t believe in what I’m saying, and I feel guilty for lying to others. It’s not like I can be honest and say I’m a hot mess. That would get me nowhere, and fast. I have no redeeming qualities, I say to myself. Everything about you is a poison, is a daily mantra of mine. Negativity shouts phrases and harsh words on a continuous loop everyday, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. I stopped questioning what it said a long time ago. If it says I’m stupid, then I must be. If it says I’m a failure, then it must be true. I can’t think of why it would lie to me. Can you?
“You make me angry and vengeful.” I’ve spoken about rage many times before, but it never does it justice. I don’t just get angry, I get even. My revenge is often sweet, yet with bitter after notes that leave a bad taste in my mouth. I don’t care how small your slight of hand was, as you will surely pay for it. It will be cold, calculated, and quick. You won’t even see it coming, but when you need me I will have disappeared. I won’t care about what you need until you have been sufficiently punished for your transgressions. After your sentence is up, I’ll come back and pretend like nothing ever happened. I have passed down my judgement, and you have suffered the consequences. I’ll smile with glee, and pat myself on the back for another job well done. It’s your own fault you idiot, you shouldn’t have made me angry.
“You make me ruin relationships.” I cannot even begin to count how many relationships I have devastated out of sheer stupidity and stubbornness. Some of them I don’t regret, as they were annoying and served no purpose. But many of them were meaningful and needed. I can never get them back, as all I can do is apologize (and not mean it of course). If they take me back, that’s fantastic. If they don’t, I don’t blame them. I do blame myself, and my need to destroy everything I touch. There is a fear that runs through my veins constantly, and it’s the fear of others leaving me. I’ve been left so many times that I can’t stand it happening again. Therefore, I will drive you crazy until you can’t stand me anymore. Our final goodbye will be filled with rage, hatred, and words that can never be unspoken. I will become empty and void of feeling for you, except a twinge of regret. After I shove that down to where I’ll never find it again, you become but a memory.
“You make decisions impossible.” Self-doubt consistently swirls through my head with every decision I must make. Do I get the steak or the chicken? Do I shower now or in an hour? Even more urgent, do I die now or wait a little longer? Do I give myself another chance, or just let myself go? Every decision is questioned. I use to be so sure of myself, and never looked back at what side I had chosen to stick to. Now, I require the input of others that can look at things through a rational lens. It’s not that I want to bother them with my own life, but it’s more like I don’t know how to live my life. They can look objectively at what I say and do, and subsequently makes decisions that are probably better than what I would’ve chosen. I don’t mean to be a burden, I just don’t want to screw up anymore. Even deeper, I don’t want to be held responsible for the decisions I make. That means that the blame would be placed on me, and it’s yet another emotion that I simply cannot handle.
“You make me hurt myself.” My left wrist looks like mincemeat. It looks like someone took a paper shredder and held it against my skin. My flesh is jagged and raw. It’s angry, expressing it’s rage with red and purple colors that make it really stand out against my normally pale skin. Nothing like a torn apart wrist to greet a person you’ve never met before. I live in the desert, so I can’t wear long sleeves. I ironically am allergic to band-aids, so those can rarely be applied. Gauze and tape make it even more obvious, so I’m left with my flaws exposed. I’ve done this for 15 years, my arm screams. Look at how fucked up I am, these scars say. What a crock of shit, I say. I did what I had to in order to survive. It’s not pretty, but I no longer have a choice. You don’t let me choose whether I want this or not anymore. You say we must have our taste for blood, and I begrudgingly oblige. Most of the time I get drunk in order to harm myself anymore. It’s devastating to do sober, as it makes my physically ill. That’s how far this gotten. I actually make myself sick when I do it in a relatively stable state of mind. But if this mind was so stable, would I even want to cut in the first place?
“You make it hard to function.” Getting out of bed sucks. No, sucks is an understatement. It’s more like an existential crisis that happens every, single, damn, day. I wake up and am cuddled by my cats, my little fur babies. Pretty much the only things that bring me joy at this point. And yet there I am, having to get up and leave them. I leave to do something I hate. The fibro causes pain that I can’t ignore, and every movement hurts. I’m immediately shackled with the burden of eating, dressing, preparing lunch, walking to work, working, exercising, and interacting with others. Do I enjoy any of these things? No. Do any of them give meaning to my life? Absolutely not. I’m a cog in a machine, and the machine is grinding me down to nothingness. But by all means, let’s get out of bed with hope for the future weekend. Oh but wait, what am I doing this weekend? A bunch of meaningless events and tasks that I partake in to keep up the illusion that I’m a functioning member of society. They exhaust me. They crush me. They tear me apart. Why do you do this to me?
“You make me question everything.” Does he hate me? Do my friends even like me, or do they just tolerate me as to not hurt my feelings. Am I a burden? Am I unlovable? A never-ending stream of consciousness weighs me down. These aren’t things I question on an infrequent basis. No, that would be too easy. This is a daily struggle. Hell, an hourly struggle. Every little instance, another question pops up. Do they all just despise me? I can’t even tell anymore. I don’t even know how I get anything done anymore. That voice of negativity is constant, and he refuses to shut the fuck up.
“You run my world.” Everyday you remind me that you’re in charge. I have no choice in things, or at least that’s what you would like me to believe. Every decision, every event, every interaction, you are present. If you’re not in the forefront, you’re at the very least in the background shouting at me. There’s a piece of you in every part of me, and I hate you for that. Just give me something to have for myself. Any little scrap would mean the world to me.
“You are me.” At the end of the day, I know everything you do is just me. I’m the one making these decisions, but you make me feel powerless in my choices. It never feels like I have a choice, and that nothing I do can fix what I’ve done. I can never remedy the damage you have caused, or rather the damage I have caused. So much has been done by my own hand, how could I possibly rectify the situation?