Even as a child, I was a knot. High-strung. Tangling thoughts just because I could. I always defended Friday 13th. I liked it just because it was thought to be unlucky. Maybe I always knew I was a black sheep. What’s worse? Being a black sheep and knowing it, or thinking you’re a black sheep when you’re not?
Consider this: thoughts are placebos.
THOUGHTS ARE PLACEBOS.
We are what we think. And my mind is mean. Harsh and relentless. For how long can someone fight their own mind? How can they win? Where does your mind end and you begin?
My eyeballs have been swollen with tears for weeks; my tears are constantly en guarde. Why? Why?
Where does it all come from, this voice that tells me I’m unloveable? Also, unloved. How can my own mind, my own life make me claustrophobic? Don’t I control my mind? Didn’t I choose this life?
A few months ago, everything was coming together and now it seems to be draining. Maybe it’s me who is draining away.
I am making myself into glass when I could so easily succumb into sand and be washed away. It’s taking all my guts to stay on the painful edge instead of toppling over. So I am stuck in no-man’s land: not okay, not not okay. But still, I am glass, and I crack, crack, crack.
I don’t have the strength to not crack. All I can do is not let too much water in. All I can do is keep reminding myself that I am not hopeless. But that’s like a kid holding a match at night, telling itself that the sun will come out before the match burns out.
I have never felt quite this way before. I am not not okay. I am just a narrow, long pit of non-colour. I am not quite hysterical, but The Panic visits daily, sometimes twice. I am not sad but I cannot stop crying.
Maybe I’m just bored.
Yes, that’s it. I’m bored.