Therapeutic Ramblings of the Mind

They say it's therapeutic to get it out, but what am I searching for? An answer; I have that. It's clear: disrespect. They said it themselves, in a roundabout way - for someone so cut-throat and "brutally honest" they sure know how to tiptoe around shit.

It's almost like they're bullshitting. Deluding themselves into thinking they're Every Cool Guy they've ever seen: a front. Cowardice.

I'm expected to know everything, every thought, feeling, response before they've asked for it. The painstaking minutes of crafting the perfect words to type or speak aloud, knowing I'm holding back, not being my true self - for what? Fear of ridicule? I do that enough to myself already. Rejection? That's my comfort blanket. Could it be that in my attempts to heal, that the people I once admired - nay glorified - have become... foolish? Childish? Unappealing?

The air of mystery that surrounded them dissipated into a murky dew. A sludge that would infect my skin, bones, soul. I'd want to be one of them, I'd crave it. Pushing my body, my brain, beyond it's limitations. Hurting myself for them, laughing it off - for nothing. It would become a contest, who could hurt themselves the most? In the end the truth was clear, it was always who could hurt me the most? And it was myself.

It had to be, there was no one I resented more than myself - those cravings of affection, the same affection I was pushing away from people that cared because they weren't Them. Them: the collective group I adored, despised. The common denominator: Me. And crappy mental health.

Some, I couldn't help: young, naïve, lost. Then when I thought I matured the rug was pulled from beneath me, until... now. Now, I've outgrown it, in places. I'm finding myself. Albeit struggling. I am maturing, slowly; growing how they couldn't - or wont? One answer is more palatable than the other. Do I really wish to glorify someone else's self-destruction in the face of the one person who truly adored me the most? And can I let that side of myself - the side reserved for my self-hatred... can I let that part of me grow? Can I let it envy her for her own happiness when she has been supporting mine for so long? No.

No. Why? Why not? How do I answer that - how dare I? Do I envy her or do I envy her lifestyle, her capabilities... her wellbeing. They're all the same in the end. Everything's the same in the end. It's a blur, all a blur, a blur of letters (numbers?) as I try to let my mind race along with my thoughts and let my hands lag behind. There isn't time for mistakes, to double-check what I say, think, feel. It will all be deleted in the end.

Will it? Will I let it? I can't; not this time. This time isn't about showing off for the sake of it; it's not a cry for attention from other people, it's a cry for myself. My own sake. I want myself to see it, to understand. That feeling of anxiety, nausea - which is it? Please tell me. -

I stop. I think, I feel, I breathe. No; no, I can't do that. Not now. I'm breaking through - plunging in? - to the surface (the depths?) I don't know where I'm going. I'm lost, I'm mad. I'm drowning.

Drowning. It always comes back to drowning. Remember that. Remember that? Oh to laugh - not now. In the morning. Hopefully. In the future, at least. I can guarantee that much... maybe.

What do I want. What do I want from this? Why can't I let this end? I calm, I breathe - no. I hold it. The realisation makes me breathe. Makes me sick. Let it stop. Let me stop breathing, feeling.. hating? Who am I hating? Myself. No? Not this time? Was it myself last time? That's not what this is about. This is about Them.

Them or them? Breathe breathe breathe. Horrible. Thoughts, realisations, feelings. Being awake, wired - I'm not. I'm exhausted. Sleep. All I've wanted is sleep. Sleep sleep sleep. I just need to stop that - but why? let the thoughts win? Let the letters become soup first, at least. Let people know this, tell them. Tell them, feel guilty and maybe make Them feel guilty? them or Them? Both. One. They all blur into one, as hard as I try.

But that's just the thing. I try hard, I try too hard and I rant and I rave and it does nothing. I'm not lonely, not really. Not really really. I'm scared, repressed, repressing. I need help, I want help, I'm too scared to get help.

I'm my own help. I am my own help now. This is it, this is me doing that. How could I forget? Because of all the anger before? There's anger now. Is that what it takes? (Pause.) Anger? Or is it myself. The only way these words can come out: as myself. Imagining, picturing them as someone else's isn't the same, doesn't feel the same. It's like Then - the happy Then. The words flowing, the creativity flourishing and now.. what.(?)

The sad what. The sad Then. The Sad Now. A husk; an empty husk. That's all I am now because that's all I'm letting myself be. Someone who doesn't think, sleep, breathe - and sometimes not eat. That's the worst part of all of it. Starvation. The slow decline. Let myself drown, I say. Let them eat cake. Eat eat eat until I stop breathing.

That part isn't hard, stopping breathing. It's just remembering to breathe. The worst of it: recognition. The recognition slowly seeping into these words, paragraphs.... can I call them that? Can I acknowledge this for what it is - no. Don't finish that thought (not fully).

You stopped. No no no, shaking my head, taking the words in. Taking the feelings in. The breath. The air. The mistakes. I'm too far gone now; too aware of it. I have to wake up. I have to stop. I'm not finished, but I have to. I've gone. I'm beyond it. I am, unfortunately,

myself.