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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
A reflection on self destructive behavior

Submitted: June 06, 2016

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Submitted: June 06, 2016




I am not a good person. I am unpredictable. Too cold one minute too hot the next. I lose control for short moments at a time, but those short moments cause lasting damage. They hurt people’s feelings and incite their wrath. I have been told often that I speak my mind too much without thinking things through. That I am fickle and my mood swings are unbearable. Everyone’s memories seem to be better than mine at recalling some slight I have dealt upon them in a moment of anger or despair. My struggle with empathy means I can scarcely read the cause, only the consequences and the consequences leave me devastated in their wake. Once the anger clears I am left with an unbearable sadness at the aftermath that I had caused. Once the despair clears, I am left with person tattered by my harsh reactions. Decisions I make in the grips of anger and despair have consequences that will haunt me long into the future. So I try to turn to cold logic, practicality, rationality, distance myself from everything so that I can be more calm and level-headed. But the coldness tends to cause an even worse reaction. It causes an angry backlash or their own coldness in return.

I should not deal what I cannot deal with. The retreat or coldness of another is a mortal blow to me. I cannot stand having someone upset with me. It breaks me down, it freaks me out. Whatever anger I felt is gone in a wave of soul crushing panic. The mood swings intensify and an apology for whatever slight is offered and all transgressions against me are forgiven.

Insanity tumbles from my lips, “I’ll do whatever you want just don’t be mad at me.”

I type it in a text.

My finger hovers over the send button.

Similar phrases play like recordings from a broken childhood so distant from this moment it scarcely feels like mine, “I’m sorry please don’t leave me” No “I’m good so please come back” No “It’s not my fault why are you chasing me” No “I’m sorry please let me out” No “Please let me out, don’t be mad please let me out.” No “Please answer the phone this time” No “I’m sorry”  “I’m sorry” “I’m sorry”

The realization of my insanity and irrationality is harsh.

Understanding of my own insanity is painful. My pain twists my reactions into a giant destructive beast. The past and present blur into a heart eating chimera. I flee constantly from this beast. Trying to forget it, trying to keep moving forward. But in times of trial I slow down from weariness and the monster is able to grasp me by my throat.  I open my mouth in fear and pure poison spews from forth, dissolving all I had built in its acidic secretion. It dissolves the very foundation from under my feet. And I am left, alone on an island of my own making that sometimes feels like home and sometimes feels like a prison. There like a mad man I rave, a two faced Janus, I face an unpleasant past and a damaged future. The two faces make a cacophony of sorrow and anger one scarcely falling silent before another can raise its voice and take its place. I long again for a cold unfeeling heart. But without anger to nurture it, it is illusive, and eventually I bow my head to the inevitability of my self-created destruction. I curl up on a bed of ice, closing my eyes to thought, my heart to sound. Eventually reality forces me to rise, a frost kissed hollow shell, and go through the motions of being alive. 

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