It: Self-Hatred

Everything I did seemed inferior.

The gloom of its presence overshadowed me. I wanted to break out of its confinement. But it wouldn’t allow something like that. It held me tighter each time. I needed something more to get out. I needed a stronger will, or a heart less deprived than my own.

Perhaps I needed a different skin. If I wasn’t so… so malleable, molding into whatever it wanted me to become, I could’ve just walked away. In retrospect, I did try to change at one time, but that’s exactly what it wanted me to do. Changing is just a symptom of this disease overriding me.

It’s pushing me further now. Is it too late? I wasn’t over the edge yet, but it was telling me to take one more step.

“So this is it,” I whispered shakily that night against the sudden breeze that sent my hands into an uncontrollable tremor. I didn’t like the abrupt sharpness of my voice in the cold, tranquil night. I decided not to speak again. Instead, I listened to its earnest encouragement, forced my shaking to subside, and I took one more step.

* * * * * * * *

The ripple effect. One thing led to another. They said drugs take away your sense of self-identity. I didn’t do drugs. But I did something worse.

I did have a choice. I didn’t have to do any of the things venomously whispered to me. I had a future. I had people who would have cared. I didn’t have to do the horrid thing–to myself–that changed lives, my life. Or well, lack of one now.


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