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.

Advertisements

I'd love to hear what you have to say!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s