there is a hole in my head. dripping out onto the floor. there is a hole in my head. and i don’t know what i’m going to do anymore.
there are forestfires, burning down my cheeks. and oh my god, does it sting…
there is asphalt in my stomach. wet, and placid. ruminating on all the wrongs i’ve done, as reality warps and bends in the midsummer air… and i just want to forget. could we please just forget?
because even after all this time, i still don’t know if i honestly deserve to be here.
and because there’s something controlling me. i can feel it. because i’m nothing more than a puppet on a string, even if these joints are weighed with the mistakes i’ve made. even if these strings are fraying, slowly.
there is a tunnel. a spiraling maze, you can die trying to follow. there is a grove of trees, surrounding me. their leaves starting to whisper sweet nothings, ever-so-softly. there is a tally mark on my wall, of all the things no one should ever have to know about me.
and there is a little closet in my room. where i like to pretend… that the cracks in my skull are something you can remedy.
Guilt has never been an easy emotion for anybody. Has it?
The summer of sixth grade, I lost three whole months to it, over a tiny error that plunged me into one of the darkest places I’ve been in for a long time. I never really got over it, in the conventional sense–there was no moment when I chose to forgive myself. Eventually, I just had to force myself to move on with my life. I did learn some pretty good coping strategies though, which I guess is something.
I haven’t had intense episodes of chronic guilt/self-loathing/what-was-probably-depression-but-I-don’t-know-I-was-eleven since, not to that level of severity where it was making it hard to sleep, and consuming my every waking hour. But it’s still continued to be a difficult emotion for me. Sometimes, I can’t even tell, whether I should be feeling guilty about something or not.
Other times, I know it’s ridiculous–I shouldn’t be beating myself up to the extent I do for such small, inconsequential things as forgetting to answer a text; apologizing to someone as though my life defends on it. And I do it anyway. Because… well, because I can’t help but feel that it’ll keep me safe. I guess that’s just anxiety for you. Sometimes, I do fuck up. I make a mistake, and I learn my lesson from it, and I apologize, and take all the steps I can to make sure it won’t happen again, and then proceed to cut myself off from all social interaction for two weeks because I’m the scourge of humanity now, apparently.
It’s something I and many other people never learned to regulate properly as a child, is what I’m getting at. But I’m working on it.
I don’t have an easy answer–and I don’t think there is one; the process of learning from mistakes is yours and yours alone. But I hope, wherever this post finds you, it brings you some form of relief–from whatever you might be going through.
Lots of love,