Saturday, December 12, 2015

I was born to hate living

Sometimes, that's almost exactly how I feel. Sometimes, I look at myself and the fact that I've become pallid and gaunt in the face that used to be rounded, but gawk at the horror that is my less than miniscule thigh. Some days I look at myself in vanity and interest. It's the same shit, on and off. I'm shit, I'm that shit. The new meds to an extent are helping, but the dimwit doctor has vowed to try and space my appointments closer and closer as if to milk more money from the whole deal. I only saw my previous (shitty, skinny shaming, blaming) psychiatrist who provided me Xanax every few months, why should I open special circumstances for the newbie who openly agreed to put me on addictives?? I mean, as much as I do appreciate them, I've been taking them more sparsely lately to try and spruce myself up, it's not simply done, but I am doing it more on an "as needed" basis like the bottle describes. As supposed as to an everyday crutch. I've been swallowing three to ten pills a day since I was a child, and there's some things medication can't even cure. You think by now that researchers would've invented a solution for all of life's little discrepancies, moreover, a cure for the warped configurations of my brain. Nothing of that nature has even been tested. I suppose it defies humanity and nature. That we're somehow destined to "overcome" our flaws, but some of us are also doomed to certain, eventual death.

It's fucking sick.

And I guess, so am I.

I don't know myself well enough, I don't love, no, I don't know how to love anymore. They've all broken my heart a bit; all the rejections and admissions. Almost sentiently tapping me on my now scarred shoulder, where a healing wound that resembles a cigarette burn is splotchy, uneven redness against ruddy slightly tanned skin. It's not from any person, it's something I let fester and  develop into a cluster of blood vessels, a clumped and disgusting lesion that could only be removed sensibly through precision by a skilled professional with something resembling a box knife, and the flickering red torch of a laser. The dermatologist laughably coined it to be the "chip on my shoulder", the "evil twin".

I was given an anesthetic, didn't feel a thing. Initially. The precursor to pain post surgery, even of such minute urgency, is always numbing. Then comes the actual pain, the itchiness, the desire to scratch, pick, rip the healing wound apart, because it won't stop fucking pestering you. Like a sentient person. Who used to be in your life. Even if the wound isn't there anymore, even if someone isn't there anymore to watch over you, to care, to bring you the affection, joy. My "mole" lesion was unwanted in most ways, but the after effects bear resemblences to a lost person, the lost contemporary to you, the person that you were so helplessly infatuated by who just… faded from your life faster than the blink of an eye without even a goodbye.

I really cared about my asshole "friend", but calling him that would seem unjust. I don't know what he was. I let myself care too much. I felt something there, I just wasted it horribly. Surely, he was flaky, forgetful, imperfect, and flawed, but I was willing to put up with anything, anything, for someone. And now that someone I cared about has been gone for a long damn time, but I can't think of the drifting apart and the general disinterest I started to express for no reason. On a downward spiral, somtimes it's seemingly impossibly to stop your feelings from dictating your actions before they clumsily exhibit themselves before a crowd of astonished and disgusted onlookers. I guess that's the splendor of it all. I let myself get distanced because, as I've previously stated, getting too close to anyone, and showing them your personality, if you can even call my monstrosity that; is a no no in the rules manual for depressive stints it's just. unfortunate that the loser is a tumor on my arm whose stupid face and hair, and smell, I sometimes think about; is any kind of figment in my imagination. Go away, B.

No comments:

Post a Comment