On a steady diet of self destruction & half-baked contradictions.

28.05.17

Another month drawing to a close. Another month that has left me possibly irrevocably damaged. It is through my own fault, lack of understanding and patheticness that I come to feel the familiar burns of rejection & heartache. My depression has morphed; evolved into a monster that I don’t even recognise. It has pushed the limits of my psyche, modern medicine and my physical being. I’ve engaged in the worst behaviours, anything to try and dull the edge of the blade that is being repeatedly plunged into me. And for what? The blade never seems to dull. Each time the wounds are more horrendous than the last. And I’m constantly filled by their haunting notion that I paid for all of this. In cash and with my soul. 

I’ve felt a betrayal that I haven’t tasted in the longest time, but its bitter aftertaste feels somewhat like home. It’s the reminder I need to continue to surprise myself, my urges any last shreds of humanity. Affection is wrong and I was wrong to have it and even more corrupt to desire it.  I repeatedly flaunt my arrogance in the face of reality, of my nature and if I were a superstitious person, I’d say luck. As a child, I believed in fate, true love and the idea of loving relationships. I believed and yearned for them throughout childhood and long into adulthood. Now I find myself angered and almost to the point of physical sickness at the thought of romance and fighting the battle to suppress my lust. My sexuality is an eerily new and I’m wanting to discover, grow into it. Learn about what is blooming inside of me. I’m growing impatient in having to suppress these desires.  I’ve waited so long, so patiently, to touch, to taste, to feel with every sense that I possess. To drink in the flesh and blood of another. To taste the soul that is housed and become fully and hopelessly intoxicated by its contents. 

I am guilty. Guilty of believing that my person suit would be enough. That my efforts would be enough. Perhaps they were too much in a way. Perhaps my flavour of love isn’t sweet, but bitter. Or the boy knew that it was nothing but chocolate coated poison. I know I should feel guilt for wanting to press my disgusting and corrupt existence upon the boy, but I don’t.

I find myself driven by a type of suicidal anger. I'm not openly suicidal, but it feels as if it's the only way I can describe these toxic actions and corrupt thoughts.  The person I hate the most and often, my most favourite target and that is me. Each act another brush stroke in my mural of destruction. I know that my actions are damaging me Putting me in the pain I feel I so rightly deserve. I hold my silence as pain tears through my stomach, kidneys, heart and bones. I know what I’m doing and I enjoy the action, yet in some of my most private and intimate moments, I cry at what I’ve done. I’m sorrowful for what I’ve done and the reasons why I felt it needed to be done. I ache that this is my relief. I’m always paying for the right to feel comfortable in my skin. There is always something out for my blood, needing it to walk on that delicate tightrope that is my life.

I am completely disillusioned by life and my own state of being. Well, everyone’s state of being too I suppose. I find myself perpetually depressed and aggravated over the state of things, but lack the entry to get up and modify things. I know later on, I’ll have all the energy I need but none of the intense focus I’ll need to make any improvements. It’s a vicious cycle. It both frustrates and intrigues me. (It’s always the way isn’t it?)