Monster

I'm friends with the monster.

I think about it sometimes, objectively. Like an expert in her field, but never that affected by anything. I think about what I'll write down for it to make any sense later, then when I do, it's gone. Tricky. It's hard to describe. There's so many types, too. The easiest ones to recall are the most dramatic. There will be times when my self-hatred is unbearable, a giant looming oversight riding alongside me in the car. I look up to the sky (when this happens is nearly the only time I ever pray anymore) and I ask that if there's a God up there, that he please come down for just a second and take away that feeling. It's horrible, eternal in the moment, inconsolable. Those words don't even begin to speak to the horrors of that stage. It's like I stare into space, but inside my head there's a million buzzing little monsters  killing my insides. A self-hatred with no reason, that drives me to kill myself, cut my flesh, do anything to take away the shame of being human.

Generally, it's an uphill battle to not fall apart. Every second needs to be filled, planned, or else I know I'll break. I jump from one bad habit to the next to supply just enough pain and stupidity to keep myself on track with self-destruction. OCD tendencies, cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, love, pain, lateness, stupidity, intelligence, anything to take away the underlying emptiness of the human condition. There's a big gap in my soul, a dark void that was dug out when I was very little. It compels me towards the edge of perfection and assurance, it kills me with every word I say. I have found nothing to take it away but one thing: mad, true, crazy love. I was in love once, for a long time. Many months. A year. It isn't that long when I think on it, but it seemed forever, because it was so strong. It ripped me apart, turned me into a different person. A love that destroys, changes, survives beyond all. That's the love I had, and I hope to have it again some day. It took away the feelings for once in my life, and I felt for the first time in 18 years that things were going to be okay for me. Then of course it went wrong and I turned much worse, but I'm forever grateful to have felt that. I love somebody now, but he is all wrong for me. What else is new?

I lose interest in everything. The moon is a cotton ball, the stars are dust. Even friendship is lonesome. The cigarettes taste blank, the music is always quiet. Work is bullshit. School, unnecessary. Human interaction? Avoidable. Food is a chore, showering stops. No cleaning, no changing my clothes, no taking care of myself. I won't eat until I feel ill or dizzy or both. It's not intentional, I just forget to take care of myself. It seems pointless, no not even that important as pointless. It's less than pointless. It just falls completely out of my priorities. It's replaced with a dull buzz to keep on with nothing, until I can hit a high or find someone to pull me out. That phase frightens me. I've found what best gets me out of it is DXM, alcohol, drugs, a car crash, running away. I push the feeling until it's too much, then I act the opposite, and everyone around me flashes their head back at me: where did I go?

The meds don't help. Therapy is painful. Hope leaves me completely. I place my hope in a person, a thought, a plan, a blade, a bottle of cough medicine, a notebook. I transfer it around my little world, my little life, and it never really settles. I will always be on the move, in and out of phases, in and out of your life. I cannot be caught or settled down. Something, a chain link fence, stands between me and everyone else. I can see them, the metal cuts my fingers to the bone as they play, but I stand on my own side, sandy white beach, black waves kissing my heels.

Somedays it's like a cloud. Descends on me the moment I wake up, a fog and I know it. I lay in bed for it to go away, but it doesn't. Upon impact with the real air, with another person, headaches begin. Anxiety courses into my bloodstream. I quiet down, shut myself down. I can't go to the store, can't go outside, not alone anyways, I need supervision. In the nighttime I quietly cut my skin open and watch the beautiful reds flow down my arm. It brings me nothing usually, but there is sometimes an after-effect of health. I love the lines on my arm. They're so straight, perfect, like sheet music. They look right on me. I dream about them. Sometimes I can see the fat and the flesh and meat underneath the skin, a pearly pink matter that leaves pretty pink ovals. Those are my favorite.

Other days it comes out as anger. I don't feel the anger, I only see it pass before my eyes as I hurt the person I love most. Hours of pain, I don't know how to make it go away. I hurt the world as best I can. I scheme, manipulate. But I never pull out the worst tricks. I know that if I do, then I'm truly just a bad person. As long as I don't do that, I am mentally ill only, not evil. I cannot be evil.