talking to myself

I wish I could say it was gonna get better. I wish I knew the future, and tell you it would improve. But I don’t. That’s the fun of it, if you look at it the right way. The uncertainty is part of the adventure. Part of the journey is the end, as Tony Stark said. All those cheesy phrases that we hand out like candy, hoping vainly they help in some small way. They usually don’t, of course, but we fake like they do. “I’m fine,” we say. “I’m pretty good,” we call out.

Then we go home and sit on our beds, dreaming of a time when we didn’t have to worry. A time long ago, called childhood, when we could have fun and not be bothered with real problems. Oh we’re still children, of course, but the older we get the worse we get. The anxiety is real and it sits in our stomach like cold lead. The depression floats over us like a fog, and unlike Scooby Doo, we can’t cut through it. The loneliness envelops us, working in tandem with the depression and anxiety to form a net that we flail in.

At first we struggle, we just want to be happy, right? Then as we realize we can’t escape, we sit in the net. We get comfortable, and that’s the last step. We become accustomed to it, we function with it, but we’ve lost the spark that carried us through life. We meander through complacently, instead of racing through, experiencing everything we can.

It’s better some days. The net is looser and we have a fleeting sense of happiness, but it’s only fleeting. Other days it tightens, and we hide away, compounding the problem. Food helps, but only temporarily. Rain doesn’t, only reflects our inner thoughts. People help, but rarely. We don’t respond to messages because we’re scared they’ll leave us once they realize what we are. So we leave them first. We hide, listening to sad music and ignoring our books that collect dust in the corner. We tell ourselves things that we would never admit to anyone else.

We’re scared, and we don’t know what to do.

We hate ourselves sometimes, more often than not.

We’re never good enough. For whom, we don’t know, but that doesn’t matter.

We’re stupid, for being insecure and anxious.

We’re jerks for being lonely and avoiding people.

We’re selfish, for doing what we need to do.

We’re toxic. We’re shameful. We’re guilt filled. We love nobody and nobody loves us.

It’s all crap, of course. Logically those aren’t true, none of them. But we believe them, because our brain doesn’t believe logic. It reads between the lines of what people say, and believes what they say is true. Even when those people are terrible in their own right, we believe them. As they spit lies we accept them, and so cause our own problems.

We know this, and blame ourselves for it. We believe we’re the root of everyone’s problems. It doesn’t help that people scream at us, reaffirming all the things we think to ourselves.

We don’t know how to get out of the cycle. It seems to involve having fun and being around people. Sometimes it works. Usually it just happens. But it always comes back. It’s the stray pet you can’t seem to get rid of, or the annoying uncle.

9 thoughts on “talking to myself

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