I want to smash things. I want to smash everything. I want to destroy all the delicate beautiful things and all the arrogantly strong things. I want to rip down the shades and tear the curtains and I want to stab pillows and throw drinks in all the faces.
Except that I don’t ever want to see another face as long as I live. And please god, erase mine first.
I want to claw into my skin to drag out the toxic disease that makes me constantly self destruct. I can feel it in my body like it’s got its own corrupt soul, moving around in my bones treating me like a goddamn marionette. I want to rip it out of my body and smash it against the walls. But I know, I still know that it’s really just me I want to smash against the wall. I know I’m the only one in this suit of flesh and I just need to find something specific to burn. I keep lighting my own skin on fire.
I see it all coming down before it starts. I try to stop it and everything I do to stop it makes it worse and it happens slowly – this B movie scene I can’t rewrite – so I have to live each frame without mercy. I give it different words and I make it wear a denim tracksuit but it’s still naked and now I am too.
The words coming out of my mouth are always the ones I definitely wasn’t going to say.
I can’t be around people. I can’t be around myself.
So many people think all I have to do is meditate or change my habits or remind myself it doesn’t have to be this way. That if life made me this way I can unmake myself. Bullshit.
Go fucking unmake yourself bitches! Tell me how that’s working out for you.
If it’s working for you then go fuck your smug self.
I was supposed to go to the city today but I infected my people with my stress, it seems, and then fucking pounded it into their skulls for good measure. Because people like me do shit like that. Then I felt so fucking bad I wanted to knife myself. No matter what I do, no matter what therapy I get, no matter what meds I take, it always comes back to that inward thrust. The desire to destroy what wants to destroy me first. To punish myself for fucking everything up AGAIN.
I haven’t cut myself or intentionally harmed myself for 28 years but it’s always there. Saying it out loud makes me seem more diseased than I want anyone to know. I want people to think you can just will that shit away and OVERCOME. Maybe some can. I can only speak for myself. That desire to garrote myself is my second shadow.
I don’t want you to know about it because it will make you see me differently. It shows my illness more than any other behavior or obsessive thought I can share. The only human deviance worse than one who wants to hurt itself is one who wants to hurt others.
But I do that too.
The spirals are fast and brutal most of the time. I don’t have time for last rights or explanations until it’s all over and then I feel like such a loser I let myself slip down the sink drain with the black mold and the tangled hair.
I am not fit to be around people. Or in the world. Or in a body.
I get whiplash sometimes between the good days and the bad. The good minutes and the stopped time.
Animals know when they’re sick. I know I’m sick in the mind. It angers me when people try to make excuses for my irregularity. It’s insulting to be lied to for someone else’s sense of comfort. So they can feel better about themselves. If I’m sick it means there are others who are like me who are also sick. If I admit to being sick they question whether they are obligated to admit they are too. They fight so hard against it. Because having my sickness is ignoble. It’s not nice. It’s pretty fucking ugly in the corners no outsiders can see. It’s the devil’s circus in here.
I made my child cry. My wonderful child who suffers from some of the same things I do. I made him cry because I was hanging on by a thread to my plans and he had the audacity to be barely hanging onto his. I lashed out at him for deciding, right as we set out for the city, that he was going to have a bad time. I tried to help and inadvertently made things worse, as I do. So I got angry. He cried. He was so stressed out and he’s new at this stress of the unknown. Poor kid inherited my awful awful anxiety and I fucking lashed out at him for it.
I am having a hard time forgiving myself for that right now. That kid of mine is pretty fucking amazing. I have the opportunity to give him support and empathy and teach him to live in a world that doesn’t understand people like us, and what I did was make him feel like shit for being sensitive to stress and outings he’s no properly prepared for.
I already apologized to him when he came into my office where I was busy not breaking everything and said he was sorry for ruining my day. I apologized to him for making him think my ruined day was his fault when it was really mine.
My guys have gone to a movie and are, I think, recovering from that madly awful hour.
I am not. Not yet. I lie in bed for a couple of hours forcing self harming thoughts from my head, listening to my cat purring on my shoulder.
I want to break things. I want to break everything.
I think I’m going to go get more beer and some Chinese food. How’s that for a strong shot of bathos?