For the last 5 days I have been underground. Out of sight and out of mind, I have altered my sleeping pattern to consist of a number of highly exasperating procedures to manage my own guilt. I seem to be in a two week slump which has hit hard on not only my self-esteem but also into my education and hip pocket. I have skipped work and assignments, admittedly for subjects that mean little to nothing to me, but I am suffering constantly in the wake of this guilt.
I don’t want to do it, I didn’t want to, not because I have no motivation but because I said ‘fuck it’ which is not a reasonable excuse. I don’t know what to do with myself.
I need money.
I need a break.
I need a life.
I need an education.
But somehow I cannot consolidate these things into a singular existence. I focus on either one or the other, I can only have a single aspect of that perfect existence at any point in time, according to my own universe and ridiculous restrictions based upon self-made rules and regulations. Maybe this is just real life catching up to me. Maybe this is what it means to be an adult, compromise and all that jazz. Though I feel that this compromise is a bit harsh, it is a little too unhealthy for me to exist within. If I could only escape the torment of a life filled with outside expectations maybe I would be okay. I expect nothing from myself except to succeed in who I am, in what I want to be, and I have no time frame or limitations placed upon that. It is everyone else around me I feel a need to live up to. As much as they repeat to me that they will be happy as long as I am, I can’t help but see the end of their patience, the line they have drawn in the sand for others. They believe it is to help those in trouble, and I agree that some do need to be cut free, or at least talked to harshly before they can realise their own full potential. All I see is a deadline in the distance made of broken friendships, relationships, family. I see a pair of slowly closing scissors, or a mouth lined with razor sharp serrated teeth just hovering beneath me, waiting for the last threads of my lifeline to fray and break. One day they will. Not because I haven’t been trying my hardest but because I can’t anymore. I’m not infallible, and as much as unrequited love can get you through the day there is a point that the unbroken and healthy must leave so as not to be infected themselves. Make no mistake I am diseased, a contagious virus that spreads and affects all those who know and touch.
I am not angered by this. I am not upset about the inevitable. I understand. It is necessary to cut off the dead flesh so the good can remain, like a gangrenous limb it must be amputated for the health and wellbeing of the whole, before it poisons the blood and tissue irreparably. I get it.
I want you to.
Almost a little too much, I wish that people would cut me off sooner rather than later, because it is so hard to see others be pulled down with me. He touches my scars, feels the bumps beneath his fingers and says they’re ugly, asks me why? I don’t have an answer. I never will, but I can’t stand the pity, anger and pain in his eyes. I am not good for you. Don’t come near me. I am not healthy and I doubt I ever will be.
I will never live up to your expectations because I cannot comprehend a way to reach those lofty heights of well being. I plan two steps ahead without knowing the first.