Sabotaged

My head is telling me to write, but there are a million things going through my head right now that've been blocking my ability to write.

I don't want to write about anything in particular. I mean, I was going to write about this fear of abandonment that's recently consumed me. Where does it even come from? I've been abandoned before. I've been through this feeling of being unwanted or undeserving of life ever since I gained the courage to live it. So, this "fear" could just be a hesitation to re-live that pain again. I take my time to deconstruct it because I know it's not just a hesitation, but a refusal to feel the pain of abandonment.

I blame it on myself, and I love doing it. I love destroying my self-image because it gives me a sense of closure:

"They left because of you. It's just you."

And there we have it, friends. An incredibly harmful sense of closure.

I don't feel like writing because I'm in this odd period during the year. The nothing period—I'd like to call it. There’s a sudden quietness to the air, although that could just be my lack of real friendships that feels ever-so burdensome near the holidays.

It's a period of reflection, a period of question, a period I'd rather not be in, but a period that I'm stuck in anyways. And the reflection is, in part, by my partner.

Self Saboteur

My partner is finally thinking about leaving me. There we go, the fear of abandonment strikes again. It is my fault, as always. There's this part of me that is always inclined to self-sabotage. I don't know why. I think it has to do with my lack of hope. I feel like if I sabotage, there's something else to blame: My intentional actions to push away other people, which is far easier than blaming myself. At some point, I always ruin things. I have a hold on something real good, but after a while, I force it to slip through my fingers. I let it hit the floor, and have it no more.

For the abandonment, for the pain, it was all on purpose, in the name of "self-sabotage." All hail the self-directed spite that drives this force we call self-sabotage. It is, above all else, the product of pain, disdain, and more. It is, above all else, inked into every word I write and the parts of me I try to fight. Self-sabotage has been a part of me since... God knows when. I'd think back to a time when I had hope, but hope has always been conjoined with a bit of pain. The alcohol numbs me like nothing ever has before. It's a pain killer in every way possible, but one step too far and it'll kill you in ways you never intended.

Self-Denial

It’s getting harder to run away from myself, more and more every day. I honestly thought I could do it: confront the pain and live to see another day. But the deeper I travel down this dark, disgusting, destructive tunnel, the more I lose all hope.

My chest hurts, my eyes feel sore, and my hands are shaky again. You don’t want to know why. I’m hurting myself again. Self-destructive coping mechanisms aren’t easy to live with. Self-destructive cycles are impossible to get out of. This little voice in the back of my head keeps telling me: something is off.

What the fuck is off? Something deserves my attention but I keep running. I keep numbing. I keep traveling as far away from it as I can, and I have no idea where I’m going. Far enough to escape it entirely? Or maybe, I’ll just end up right back where I started.

I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore, and I don’t know if I ever did.

I mean, if I really did know something true, I surely wouldn’t be here. Staring down at myself from a place I don’t recognize anymore.

Self-Destruction

What's left of me when I go, aside from this carcass of used goods and pain I never allowed myself to fully confront? What's left but thinning hair, aging eyes, and hands that have barely touched anything beyond the surface of this world? What is left but death, and a life of lost potential...

What's left but me, and whatever else still exists. I've felt gone for so long, so when people leave, it feels like they're taking a piece of me with them. Every time they leave, I get smaller... and smaller, and smaller. Every person has taken a chunk of me with them, and God knows what they do with it now. I am unrecognizable, and I don't know who to be with whatever's left. I don't know what to mold out of the old pieces of clay. I don't know what to create. Everything I see is tainted and inextricably tied with pain, whether it's the world, the media, or myself. I struggle, but I try to create something better.

I struggle, but I try. That should be enough, right? I don't want them to abandon me. I don't want them to leave, but it sits inside me: This pain, this fear, this growing hole filled with regret, pessimism, and absolute gore—you sit inside me. At the very least, I know that'll never leave me.